The ache doesn’t always come from outside. Sometimes it festers within, gnawing at the heart drop by drop, corroding the soul. I haven’t been angry for a long time—just weary. Quietly wounded. Not at the children, no… at myself. At how I raised them. Somewhere along the path of a mother’s love, I confused boundless care with boundless indulgence. Now I reap what I sowed.
Seven years ago, I buried my husband. We shared forty years together, every moment poured into the family, into the children. We worked without weekends, without holidays, never sparing a thought for ourselves. All for them. For their futures. We bought them flats, paid for their education, gave them everything they could dream of. When he was gone, I wasn’t just alone—I was without my anchor. Now, two years into my pension, I sit in this cold flat and wonder how it came to this. How my own flesh and blood—the ones I lived for—now act as if I don’t exist.
My pension is a bitter joke. Thank goodness for the council tax support, or the electric would’ve been cut long ago. Even so, there’s never enough—not for medicine, not for food, not for the simplest things. I’ve asked the children. Not for much. Just a little help. But my son’s answer? “What do you need money for?” My daughter’s? “We’ve got our own troubles.”
Troubles? Yet they jet off on holidays, buy new clothes, new cars. My daughter’s wardrobe bursts with designer labels, and her seven-year-old gets two hundred quid a month in pocket money. Two hundred quid—that would cover my medicine, my groceries. But she insists she can’t spare it. How can that be? It makes my chest tighten. I’ve worn the same boots for years now, worn through, soles leaking. But I don’t say a word. Too ashamed. And I won’t ask again. The humiliation isn’t worth it.
I watch my friends, my neighbours. Their children help—bring groceries, pay bills, take them in during winter. But me? It’s like I’ve got no one. And the cruelest part? I taught them this. My sister and I looked after our parents—money, food, time, whatever they needed—and we did it gladly. No complaints. Just love. But my children? Mine turned away. And it’s not just pain. It’s hollowness.
Once, I suggested moving in with my daughter for a year, renting out my flat for some extra income. They’ve got the space. But she wouldn’t hear it. “Rent out a room and live in the other,” she said. So living with strangers is fine—but not your own mother? To this day, I don’t understand where I went wrong. What turn did I miss?
Now, every day is survival. How to stretch my pension to month’s end? How to stay well? How to bear the silence? My husband and I gave them everything—every penny, every ounce of strength. And now? I live on the fringes of their lives. Quiet. Resigned. Somewhere inside, though, there’s still a flicker of hope. That maybe, one day, one of them will remember they have a mother. Not after I’m gone. Now.
But it seems hope is all I have left.
