My heart is breaking from the pain and loneliness. I’m exhausted from fighting this battle alone while my grown-up children, the ones I sacrificed everything for, can’t even be bothered to remember me. I’ve given them an ultimatum—either they start helping me, or I’ll sell everything and move into a care home where someone will actually look after me.
My husband, William, and I dedicated our lives to our kids—our son, Daniel, and our daughter, Emily. They were our joy, our long-awaited blessings, the reason we went without so much ourselves. We scrimped and saved just so they could have the best toys, clothes, and education. Maybe we spoiled them too much, but it came from endless love, from wanting to give them everything we never had growing up.
The finest tutors, top universities in London, trips abroad—William and I paid for it all. I was so proud of our family—thought we’d done everything right. We worked our fingers to the bone so they’d never want for anything, so their lives would be easier than ours. Back then, I truly believed they’d be grateful.
When Emily married and got pregnant, my world shattered—William passed suddenly from a heart attack. I barely survived the grief—he was my rock, my other half. But I held it together for our daughter, knowing she needed me. I gave Emily the flat in central Manchester that I’d inherited from my parents. When Daniel married, I handed over his grandmother’s two-bed maisonette in Bristol. They had roofs over their heads, but I didn’t rush to put the deeds in their names.
Last year, I finally retired. I should’ve done it sooner, but I held on as long as I could. At 74, I was still sharper than most younger colleagues, but my health started failing. My energy drained away, and the pain in my joints and chest became unbearable. I could feel life slipping through my fingers.
My eldest grandson, Oliver, started school, and Daniel’s wife just had a baby. I used to help with Oliver when I could, but I didn’t have the strength for the newborn. Not that anyone asked. And honestly, I couldn’t manage on my own anymore. When I’d call the kids, begging for the smallest bit of help—groceries, tidying up—they always had an excuse: work, errands, exhaustion.
We only saw each other on holidays. The rest of the time, I was alone, struggling with chores despite the aches and fatigue. One day, I collapsed in the kitchen and couldn’t get up. If my neighbour Margaret hadn’t found me and called an ambulance, I’d have died right there on the cold tiles. In hospital, I waited for the kids, but all I got was, “Mum, we’re at work—we can’t just drop everything.” When it was time to leave, I asked Emily to pick me up. Her reply was ice-cold: “Just get a taxi—you’re a grown woman.”
The second I was discharged, I phoned social services. Asked them to find me a decent care home and quote the fees. I’m tired of feeling like a burden, tired of the indifference. I just want to live somewhere I’ll be cared for.
When the kids finally visited, I mustered every ounce of strength and said, “Either step up and help me, or I sell the flats and move into a home. The money will cover it.” Emily burst out, “You’re blackmailing us? You’d leave us with nothing? We’ve got mortgages, kids, problems of our own—and you’re only thinking about yourself!” Her words cut like a knife. After everything I’ve given them, they can’t even fetch me a glass of water?
Their reaction crushed me, but their coldness only hardened my resolve. I’m not asking for much—just a scrap of the care I deserve. But they haven’t learned a thing. I won’t spend my last years trapped in these four walls, feeling like a nuisance. I don’t know what comes next, but I don’t see another way. Call it a threat if you want—it’s my last shot at a dignified old age.
