**Diary Entry**
I don’t think my children remember I exist. I warned them—either they step up, or I sell everything and move into a care home.
I’m exhausted. Bone-tired, with hands that tremble, a chest that aches, and nights spent staring at the ceiling. My grown children act as if I’m already gone. I gave them everything—my soul, my youth, my health, my love. And yet, they can’t even ask how I am. So, I made it plain: either take responsibility for your mother, or I sell it all and settle into a proper retirement home. A room, care, peace—and no more disappointment.
My husband and I lived our whole lives for our children. For our son and daughter, we sacrificed everything. We went without basics just to give them the best—private tutors, prestigious universities, holidays, gadgets—all bought with our blood and sweat. I thought we were the perfect family. Maybe we spoiled them too much. But how could we not, when we loved them more than life itself?
When Sophie got married and fell pregnant, my husband passed suddenly. Just didn’t wake up one morning. Losing him shattered me, and I’ve never truly recovered. But I carried on—my daughter needed me. I gave her my parents’ flat. When our son married, I handed over my mother-in-law’s two-bedroom in the city centre. They had roofs over their heads, but I hesitated to sign the deeds. I wanted to see how they’d treat me.
I worked until 74—longer than most young people do. I could’ve retired years earlier, but there was always something—grandchildren, expenses, home repairs for the kids. Then it caught up with me. My legs gave out, my hands shook. And what help did I get? None.
My grandson started school. My son just had a baby. I practically raised his eldest, but this new one? I haven’t even held him. No one asks if I need anything, no one checks in. And I do need help. I call, begging—”Bring some groceries, help tidy up”—always the same answer: “We’re busy,” “Not now,” “We’ve got things on.”
We only saw each other at holidays. The rest of the time, I struggled alone. Until the day I fell in the kitchen and couldn’t get up. I lay on the cold tiles until the neighbour found me. An ambulance took me to hospital. Five days there. Neither of them came. “Work,” they said. When I asked for a ride home, Sophie suggested I call a cab. That’s when I knew.
Right after discharge, I called social services. Asked about care homes—costs, contracts, quality. I won’t spend my last years alone in a place no one cares to visit.
When they finally came round, I laid it out: either help me, or I sell both flats, the cottage, and leave. The money would cover years of proper care, comfort, dignity. They’d have to manage on their own.
“You’re blackmailing us?” Sophie exploded. “We’ve got mortgages, kids, debts—and you’re only thinking of yourself?”
Yes, I am. Because no one else is. Because I never asked for much—just a little care. I gave you everything. Now, I can’t even get someone to pour me soup or tuck me in. Don’t lecture me about being busy. I was busy too, but I always made time for you.
Sophie stormed off. My son left without a word. A week has passed—no calls, no messages. But I don’t regret it. In their silence, I hear the truth. They don’t want me—just what I own. And if not that? Then nothing at all.
I don’t know what’s next. Maybe I will leave. Maybe I’ll find somewhere they’ll call me by my name, not “a burden.” One thing’s clear now—being a mother doesn’t guarantee your children will stay. Especially when you’ve become “inconvenient.”
