**Diary Entry:**
I always believed I’d support my children as long as I had the strength, and in my old age, they’d do the same for me. But how painful it is to realise I was wrong. When my grandchildren were small, I’d hear, “Mum, we need you so much!” Now they’ve grown, and I’ve become surplus. Even a phone call feels too much to ask—just cold silence and emptiness.
I have two grown children—my daughter, Emily, and my son, Thomas. Their father and I split when they were still in school. He found someone else, she fell pregnant, and he left us for her. At first, he still saw Emily, but when Thomas learnt the truth, he refused to speak to him. Eventually, Dad moved away with his new family, and all contact faded. Child support? Forget it. We stayed in our small flat on the outskirts of Manchester, and I raised them alone.
My parents and brother helped when they could, but it was still a struggle. Thomas was fifteen, Emily twelve when the divorce came. The teenage years were mine to bear, often crying myself to sleep. But they grew up, wiser, went to university, built their own lives. Emily married first; two years later, Thomas did too. Neither lived with me—they left straightaway to chase their futures.
I did everything to help them. My support became vital when the grandchildren arrived. I was like a second mum—stepping in when Emily couldn’t, taking little Sophie to nursery, fetching her, helping with homework. I supported my daughter-in-law when her own mother was too busy. If my kids wanted a break, the grandkids stayed with me. I never refused, even when I felt unwell. I knew—they were young, they needed rest. I’d been a young mum too, but no one had helped me.
They used to call often, bring the children over, and I’d visit. That lasted until the grandkids grew older and I stopped being needed. Now they walk to school themselves, lost in their own worlds. Time flew too fast, leaving me stranded. I couldn’t help financially—my pension barely covered my bills. The grandchildren no longer wanted to spend time with me, glued instead to friends and screens. My children stopped calling, stopped visiting.
At first, they’d drop by now and then, but the gaps grew longer. I had to dial their numbers first to ask how they were. Now it’s just obligatory holiday calls—stiff, hurried greetings. They visit once a year, if that, and never stay long. I’m not getting younger; cleaning alone tires me. I need help but hate to ask. Last winter, a pipe burst. I rang Thomas, begged him to come, but he brushed me off. “Call a plumber—I haven’t got time.” Emily said the same, claiming her husband was busy.
In the end, it was my neighbour—a young man whose flat I’d accidentally flooded—who helped. He shut off the water, and his wife helped mop up. Later, he drove to the shop, bought the parts, and fixed it himself. I tried to pay them—it was my fault—but they refused. “We’ll always help if needed,” they said. My own children? Not even a follow-up call. I’ve decided not to ring them anymore. I won’t force myself on them. The last call was New Year’s—a quick “Happy New Year,” then silence. No invitation.
Two children, two grandchildren, yet entirely alone. We were taught that devotion to family was everything. Now I wonder—should I have lived for myself instead? Maybe then old age wouldn’t taste so bitter. I gave them everything. In return? Silence. And that silence is breaking my heart.
