I always believed I’d help my children while I could, and in my old age, they’d be there for me. But it hurts to realize how wrong I was. When my grandchildren were little, I’d hear, “Mum, we need you so much!” Now they’ve grown, and I’ve become unnecessary. Even a phone call feels like too much to ask—just cold silence and emptiness.
I have two grown children—my daughter, Emily, and my son, James. Their father and I separated when they were still in school. He found another woman, she fell pregnant, and he left us for her. At first, he still saw Emily, but when James learned the truth, he refused to speak to him. Eventually, their father moved to another city with his new family, and the connection faded. Child support was out of the question. We stayed in a small flat on the outskirts of Manchester, and I raised them alone.
My parents and brother helped as much as they could, but it was still a struggle. James was fifteen, Emily twelve, when we divorced. I endured their teenage years on my own, often crying myself to sleep. But they grew up, became wiser, went to university, and started their own families. Emily married first, and two years later, James followed. They never lived with me after that—they left straightaway to build their own lives.
I did everything to support them. My help was especially needed when the grandchildren came along. I was like a second mother to them: I stepped in when Emily was on maternity leave, took my granddaughter to nursery, picked her up, fed her, helped with homework. I supported my daughter-in-law, too, when her own mother couldn’t. If my children wanted to go away, they’d leave the little ones with me. I never refused, even when I felt unwell. I understood—they were young; they needed time for themselves. I’d been a young mother once, too, and no one had helped me.
For a while, they called often, brought the grandchildren over, and I’d visit them. But that changed as the children grew older and I became less useful. Now they’re in school, with their own hobbies and lives. Time flew by too fast, and I’ve been left behind. I couldn’t help financially—my pension barely covers my bills. The grandchildren didn’t want to spend time with me anymore; they’d rather see friends or play on their tablets. My children stopped calling, stopped visiting.
At first, they still dropped by, phoned occasionally—but less and less. I had to dial their numbers myself just to hear how they were. Now it’s just a quick, dutiful call on birthdays or Christmas. They visit once a year, if that, and never stay long. I’m not getting any younger, and keeping up with the house is harder. I need help, but I’m too ashamed to ask. Last year, a pipe burst. I rang James, begging him to come, but he brushed me off: “Call a plumber, I don’t have time.” Emily told me the same, saying her husband was too busy.
In the end, my neighbor—a young lad whose flat I’d accidentally flooded—came to my rescue. He shut off the water, and his wife helped clean up. Then he went to the shop himself, bought everything to fix it, and sorted the pipe. I tried to give them money—it was my fault, after all—but they refused. “We’ll always help if you need it,” they said. Meanwhile, my own children never even called back to check if the problem was solved. I’ve decided not to ring them anymore. I won’t force myself on them. The last time they called was New Year’s—a quick “Happy New Year,” then goodbye. Not even an invitation to visit.
I have two children and two grandchildren, yet I’m completely alone. We were taught that the most important thing was to devote ourselves to our families. But now I wonder—maybe I should have lived for myself instead. Then old age wouldn’t taste so bitter. I gave them everything, and in return, I got silence. And that silence is breaking my heart.
