I always believed I’d help my children while I could, and in my old age, they’d support me. But how painful it is to realize I was wrong. When my grandchildren were little, I heard, “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 Thomas. Their father and I parted ways when they were in school. He found another woman, she fell pregnant, and he left. At first, he still saw Emily, but when Thomas learned the truth, he refused to speak to him. Eventually, my ex-husband moved to Manchester with his new family, and all contact faded. Child support was out of the question. We stayed in a small flat on the outskirts of Bristol, and I raised them alone.
My parents and brother helped where they could, but it was still hard. Thomas was fifteen, Emily twelve, when we divorced. I weathered their teenage years alone, often crying at night. But they grew up, became wiser, went to university, and started families of their own. Emily married first, and two years later, Thomas did too. They never lived with me—left straight away to build their lives.
I did everything to support them. They needed me most when the grandchildren arrived. I became their second mother—covering for Emily’s maternity leave, picking the little ones up from nursery, helping with homework. I was there for my daughter-in-law too when her own mother couldn’t be. If they wanted a holiday, they’d leave the kids with me. I never said no, even when I felt awful. I understood—they were young, they needed breaks. I’d been a young mother once, with no one to lean on.
They used to call often, bring the grandchildren round, and I’d visit. That was before the children grew older and stopped needing me. Now they walk to school themselves, lost in their own worlds and screens. Time moved 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; friends and gadgets mattered more. The calls and visits from my children stopped.
At first, they still visited, rang sometimes—but less and less. I had to dial their numbers myself to hear their voices. Now they only call on birthdays and Christmas, dry and hurried. They visit once a year, briefly. I’m not getting younger—cleaning alone is a struggle. I need help but can’t bring myself to ask. Last year, a pipe burst. I rang Thomas, begging him to come, but he brushed me off. “Call a plumber, I haven’t got time.” Emily said the same, her husband too busy.
A neighbor—a young man whose flat I flooded—came to my rescue. He shut off the water, and his wife helped clean up. Then he went to the shop himself, bought repair supplies, and fixed it. I tried to pay them—it was my fault—but they refused. “We’ll always help if you need it,” they said. My own children didn’t even call back to check. I’ve stopped ringing them. I won’t force myself where I’m not wanted. The last time they rang was New Year’s—a quick greeting, then goodbye. No invitation.
I have two children and two grandchildren, but I’m utterly alone. We were taught that sacrificing everything for family was noble. Now I wonder—should I have lived for myself? Then maybe old age wouldn’t taste so bitter. I gave them everything. In return, I got silence. And that silence is tearing my heart apart.
