They discharged me from the hospital, telling my children I couldn’t live alone—what a cruel lesson life had in store for me.
In a quiet village in the Yorkshire Dales, where old stone cottages hold the echoes of family laughter, my life—once full of sacrifices for my kids—turned to betrayal. I’m Eleanor, and I gave everything for my son and daughter. But lying in that hospital bed, I learned the bitter truth: the ones I lived for had turned away from me. That heartbreak showed me who truly cared.
Looking back, I wonder—was I a good mother? Did my mistakes make them so cold? I raised them alone after my husband passed. My son, James, was just three months old; my daughter, Margaret, was five. I worked myself to the bone, taking any odd job to keep food on the table. Never let myself crumble—knew no one else would step up.
I gave them everything. Margaret and James got their degrees, landed good jobs. While my health held, I doted on my grandkids—Thomas, Margaret’s boy, and William, James’s lad. Bought them gifts, gave them pocket money, picked them up from school, even had them stay summers so their parents could get a break. Did it all gladly, believing love would come back to me.
Then everything changed. I fell ill and ended up in hospital. Margaret visited once; James only called. After two weeks, they sent me home, warning me to rest. But the next day, my kids dropped the grandkids off. Thomas and William, full of energy, needed constant attention. Weak as I was, I tried—but within months, I got worse. My legs went numb; I could barely stand.
I begged James to take me back to hospital. “Too busy,” he said. Margaret wouldn’t come either. In desperation, I called a cab. The doctors were worried—my body couldn’t take the strain. They told me to rest, but by morning, my legs gave out. Panicked, I rang Margaret. “Call an ambulance,” she said coldly. Back to hospital I went.
The doctors told my children I couldn’t live alone—needed proper care. Margaret and James started arguing over who’d take me in. Humiliating, like I was a burden to dump. Margaret complained her two-bed flat was too small. James shouted that his pregnant wife wouldn’t have his mum underfoot. Their words cut deeper than any knife.
I couldn’t take it. “Both of you—get out!” I screamed, choking on tears. They left me there, sobbing in that hospital bed. How could my own children—the ones I lived for—be so cruel? Did I really raise them to be so selfish? That night, I lay awake, drowning in pain and loneliness.
Next morning, my neighbor, Emily—a single mum raising her little girl—came by. She’d always checked on me, brought homemade meals, asked after my health. I spilled my heart out. Without hesitation, she said, “If your own won’t care for you, I will.” She made me lunch, brewed tea, and for the first time in ages, I felt warmth—not from family, but from kindness.
Now Emily looks after me. I give her half my pension for groceries and meals; the rest goes to bills. Relying on someone else’s mercy tears me apart. My kids barely ring, especially since Emily stepped in. Their indifference is a knife in the back.
Never thought I’d end up unwanted in my old age. Gave them all my love, all my strength—and they grew up thankless. Now I want to leave my cottage to Emily—she’s closer than blood. But deep down, I still hope Margaret and James will wake up, come home, hug me, say sorry. That hope flickers, weak as a dying candle—but each day, betrayal snuffs it out a little more. Life taught me a harsh lesson: the love you give isn’t always returned, and sometimes kindness comes from the last place you’d expect.
