My heart is shattered by pain and loneliness. I’m exhausted from fighting this battle alone while my grown-up children, for whom I sacrificed everything, barely remember I exist. I’ve given them an ultimatum: either they start helping me, or I’ll sell everything I own and move into a care home where someone will look after me.
My husband, William, and I dedicated our lives to our children—our son, Edward, and our daughter, Eleanor. They were our joy, our long-awaited blessings, for whom we denied ourselves everything. We scrimped and saved to give them the finest toys, clothes, and education. Perhaps we spoiled them too much, but it came from boundless love, from wanting them to have all the things we never did in our youth.
The best tutors, prestigious universities in London, holidays abroad—William and I paid for it all. I was proud of our family, certain we’d set the perfect example. We worked tirelessly so they’d never want for anything, so their lives would be better than ours. Back then, I truly believed they’d be grateful.
When Eleanor married and fell pregnant, my world collapsed—William passed suddenly from a heart attack. I barely survived the loss; he was my rock, my other half. But I stayed strong for our daughter, knowing she needed me. I gave Eleanor the flat in central Liverpool that I’d inherited from my parents. When Edward married, I handed him the two-bedroom flat left by his grandmother. They had roofs over their heads, though I hesitated to transfer the deeds outright.
Last year, I retired. I should’ve done it sooner, but I held on as long as I could. At 74, I worked harder than many younger colleagues, but my health began to fail. My strength waned, and the pain in my joints and heart became unbearable. I could feel life slipping through my fingers.
My eldest grandson, Oliver, started school, and Edward recently welcomed another child. I helped with Oliver when I could, but I didn’t have the energy for the new baby. No one asked for my help, anyway. And I could barely manage on my own. When I called the children to ask for the smallest favour—groceries, a bit of cleaning—they always had an excuse: work, commitments, exhaustion.
We only saw each other on holidays. The rest of the time, I was alone, struggling through daily life despite the weakness and pain. Once, I fell in the kitchen and couldn’t get up. If my neighbour Margaret hadn’t found me and called an ambulance, I might have died right there on the cold tiles. In hospital, I waited for my children, but they just said, “Mum, we’re at work, we can’t come.” When it was time to leave, I asked Eleanor to collect me, but she replied coldly, “Just take a taxi—you’re not a child.”
As soon as I was discharged, I contacted social services. I asked them to find a good care home and tell me the costs. I’m tired of being a burden, tired of the indifference. I want to live somewhere I’ll be cared for.
When the children finally visited, I gathered my courage and said, “Either you start helping me, or I sell the flats and move into a care home. The money will cover it.” Eleanor snapped, “Are you blackmailing us? You’d leave us without a home? We’ve got mortgages, kids, problems of our own, and you’re only thinking of yourself!” Her words cut like a knife. After all I’ve given them, they can’t even bring me a glass of water?
Their reaction crushed me, but their indifference only hardened my resolve. I’m not asking for much—just a little of the care I deserve. Yet they’ve learned nothing. I won’t spend my final years trapped in four walls, feeling like a nuisance. I don’t know what comes next, but I see no other way. It may sound like a threat, but this is my last chance for a dignified old age.
