**Diary Entry – 12th October**
I’m 67 years old, living alone, and I’ve begged my children to take me in, but they refuse. I don’t know how to go on.
Margaret sat in her small flat in Manchester, staring at the old telly buzzing in the corner—background noise that did nothing to fill the silence pressing in around her. Her wrinkled hands trembled as they clutched the phone, its screen blank of any new messages. She’d just called her son, Oliver, and her daughter, Emily, with the same plea: *“Please, let me come live with you. I can’t manage alone.”* Their answers, though polite, cut deep: *“Mum, we haven’t got the space,”* or *“Mum, now’s not a good time.”* Margaret set the phone down and wept, the loneliness wrapping around her like a bitter winter chill. At 67, she felt lost, unsure how to face the days ahead.
Her life had been one of hard work and sacrifice. She’d raised Oliver and Emily single-handedly after their father passed from a heart attack when they were just ten and eight. She’d worked as a seamstress, stitching late into the night just to afford warm coats and schoolbooks. She’d denied herself everything—new dresses, holidays by the seaside, even simple rest—so her children would never want for anything. Oliver became a solicitor; Emily, a teacher. She’d swelled with pride at their successes, as though their achievements were her own. Yet now, as her strength faded and her health faltered, she found herself discarded, an afterthought.
Margaret never wanted to be a burden. She struggled on, cooking simple meals, dragging herself to the shops despite her aching knees, scrubbing the flat even when her hands refused to cooperate. But every day was a battle. The stairs to her third-floor flat loomed like a mountain, groceries weighed like lead, and the nights stretched on endlessly. She feared falling ill, collapsing in her empty flat with no one to hear her cries. All she wanted was to live with her children, to see her grandchildren, to feel like part of a family again. But each refusal, each gentle *“no,”* confirmed the crushing truth—her life no longer mattered to them.
Oliver lived in Leeds with his wife and two kids. When she called, his voice carried thinly veiled irritation: *“Mum, the house is cramped, the kids are loud—you’d hate it.”* She heard what he wouldn’t say: *I don’t want my life disrupted.* Emily, in Liverpool, was kinder but no less cutting: *“We’ll think about it, Mum, but work’s mad right now.”* Margaret imagined them talking behind her back, labelling her a *problem*, and the grief nearly swallowed her whole. She wasn’t asking for luxury—just a corner to call home, a place where someone might listen. Even that was too much.
One evening, after yet another rejection, Margaret sat down to write a letter. She meant to pour out her heart, but all she managed was: *“I love you, but I’m frightened. If you don’t want me, just say so.”* She posted it to Oliver and Emily. Neither replied. The silence was worse than any words. Margaret gazed at their photos on the wall and asked herself, *Where did I go wrong?* She remembered cradling them as babies, singing lullabies, sacrificing every comfort—only to end up alone.
Neighbours tried to help. Mrs. Thompson from downstairs brought shepherd’s pie; young Liam from the fourth floor carried her shopping. Their kindness stung—strangers cared more than her own flesh and blood. Margaret joined the local senior centre, where she sang in the choir and took up knitting. She laughed there, pretending, but back in her flat, the silence returned. Her grandchildren, seen once a year at best, grew up without her. The thought was a knife to the heart. She longed to bake them biscuits, share stories, but instead, she counted the empty hours.
These days, Margaret forces herself to find purpose. She’s enrolled in a computer course, praying it’ll help her video-call the grandkids—*if* they remember her. She tends potted geraniums on the windowsill, hoping their brightness might chase away the gloom. But at night, when sleep won’t come, she weeps into her pillow, whispering, *What did I do to deserve this?* A part of her still waits—for Oliver or Emily to ring, to say, *“Mum, come home.”* But with each passing day, that hope dims. Margaret doesn’t know how much time she has left, but she knows she doesn’t want to spend it alone. And until her children remember her, she’s learning, slowly, to love herself—for the first time in 67 years.
**Lesson Learned:** Love shouldn’t be a debt, and family shouldn’t come with conditions. Sometimes, the people we hold closest are the ones who let us fall the hardest.
