My children have forgotten me—either help me, or I’ll sell everything and move into a care home.
My heart aches with loneliness and sorrow. I’m tired of fighting alone while my grown-up children, for whom I sacrificed everything, barely spare me a thought. I’ve given them an ultimatum: either they start supporting me, or I’ll sell all my belongings and leave for a care home, where someone will at least look after me.
My husband, William, and I devoted 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 so they could have the finest toys, clothes, and education. Perhaps we spoiled them too much, but it came from boundless love—from wanting to give them all the things we never had in our youth.
The best tutors, prestigious universities in London, holidays abroad—William and I paid for it all. I took pride in our family, believing it was something to admire. We worked ourselves to the bone so that our children never wanted for anything, so their lives would be better than ours. Back then, I truly thought they’d be grateful.
When Eleanor married and fell pregnant, my world shattered—William died suddenly of a heart attack. I barely survived the loss; he was my rock, my other half. But I held on for our daughter’s sake, 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 that had belonged to his grandmother. My children had roofs over their heads, though I hadn’t rushed to put the deeds in their names.
Last year, I retired. I should have done it sooner, but I clung to work as long as I could. At seventy-four, I was still sharper than most youngsters, but my health was failing. My strength ebbed away; the pain in my joints and heart grew unbearable. I could feel life slipping through my fingers.
My eldest grandson, Oliver, started school, and Edward recently had another child. I helped with Oliver when I could, but I didn’t have the strength for the newborn. No one asked me to, either. And I could no longer manage alone. When I called my children, pleading for the smallest bit of help—groceries, cleaning—they always had an excuse: work, commitments, exhaustion.
We only saw each other on holidays. The rest of the time, I was alone, battling through my days despite the weakness and pain. Once, I collapsed in the kitchen and couldn’t get up. If my neighbour, Margaret, hadn’t called an ambulance, I would’ve died right there on the cold tiles. In hospital, I waited for my children, but they only said, *”Mum, we’re at work—we can’t.”* When it was time to leave, I begged Eleanor to fetch me. Her reply was ice: *”Take a taxi—you’re not a child.”*
The moment I was discharged, I contacted social services. I asked them to find a decent care home and tell me the costs. I’m tired of being a burden—tired of their indifference. I want to live somewhere I’ll be cared for.
When my children finally visited, I gathered my courage and said: *”Either you start helping me, or I sell the flats and move into a home. I’ll have enough money.”* Eleanor snapped: *”Are you blackmailing us? Leaving us homeless? We’ve got mortgages, kids, problems—and you only think of yourself!”* Her words cut deeper than any knife. I gave them everything, and they can’t even bring me a glass of water?
Their reaction crushed me, but their coldness only hardened my resolve. I’m not asking for much—just the slightest care, which I’ve earned. But they haven’t changed. I won’t spend my last years trapped in these walls, feeling unwanted. I don’t know what comes next, but I see no other choice. Call it a threat if you will—but it’s my final chance at dignity.
