I always thought I’d help raise my grandchildren while I still had the strength, and in my old age, they’d support me. But it hurts to realise how wrong I was. When my grandkids were little, I’d hear, “Mum, we need you so much!” Now they’ve grown up, and I’ve become unnecessary. Even a phone call from them is rare—just cold silence and emptiness.
I have two grown children—a daughter, Emily, and a son, James. Their father and I split when they were in school. He found another woman, she got 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 all contact ended. 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 best they could, but it was still hard. James was fifteen, Emily twelve, when we divorced. I got through the teenage years on my own, often crying myself to sleep at night. But they grew up, wiser, went to university, and started their own families. Emily married first, and two years later, James did the same. They never lived with me—they left straight away 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 took care of the baby while Emily was on maternity leave, picked my granddaughter up from nursery, cooked for them, helped with homework. I even supported my daughter-in-law when her own mother couldn’t. If the kids wanted a weekend away, they left the grandchildren with me. I never refused, even when I felt unwell. I understood—they were young, they needed a break. I’d been a young mum once too, but no one had helped me.
They used to call often, bring the grandchildren over, and I’d visit them. That’s how it was—until the grandchildren grew older and I became useless to them. Now they walk to school by themselves, have their own hobbies, their own lives. Time flew by too fast, and I was left behind. I couldn’t help financially—my pension barely covered my own needs. The grandkids didn’t want to spend time with me anymore; they’d rather be with friends or glued to their screens. The children stopped calling, stopped visiting.
At first, they still dropped by, rang now and then, but less and less. I had to dial their numbers myself just to ask how they were. Now they only call on holidays, with a quick, impersonal greeting. They visit once a year, and never for long. I’m not getting any younger, and it’s hard to keep up with the housework alone. I need help, but it’s embarrassing to ask. Last year, a pipe burst. I called James, begged him to come, but he brushed me off: “Just call a plumber, I don’t have time.” Emily told me to hire someone too, saying her husband was busy.
A neighbour helped me—a young lad whose flat I’d accidentally flooded. He came over, shut off the water, and his wife helped clean up. Then he went to the hardware store himself, bought everything to fix the pipe, and sorted it all out. I tried to pay them—it was my fault, after all—but they refused. Said they’d always help if I needed it. My own children didn’t even call back to check if the problem was fixed. I decided not to ring them anymore. I won’t force myself on them. The last time they called was at Christmas—a quick “Happy New Year” before hanging up. They didn’t even invite me over.
I have two children and two grandchildren, but I’m completely alone. We were taught that the most important thing was to devote yourself to your family. But now I wonder. Maybe I should’ve lived for myself? Then my old age wouldn’t taste so bitter. I gave them everything, and in return, I got silence. And that silence is tearing my heart apart.
