My children never think of me. I warned them: either they step up, or I sell everything and move into a care home.
I’m exhausted—bone-tired, my hands shaking, my chest aching, my nights sleepless. My grown-up children act as if I no longer exist. I gave them everything—my soul, my youth, my health, my love. And they can’t even ask how I’m doing. I told them straight: either take responsibility for your mother, or I’ll sell the lot and move into a decent private care home. I’ll have my own room, proper care, peace—and not a single disappointment.
My husband and I spent our whole lives for the kids. We did whatever it took for our son and daughter. We denied ourselves the basics just so they could have the best—private tutors, top universities, holidays, gadgets, all bought with our sweat and sacrifice. I thought we were the perfect family. Maybe we spoiled them rotten. But how could we not, when we loved them more than life itself?
When Emily got married and fell pregnant, my husband suddenly passed. Just didn’t wake up one morning. Losing him shattered me, and I’ve never truly recovered. But I carried on—my daughter was expecting, she needed me. I gave her the flat I’d inherited from my parents. And when William married, I handed over my mother-in-law’s two-bed in the city centre. They had roofs over their heads, but I held off signing the deeds. Wanted to wait, see how they’d behave.
I worked till I was 74—longer than most young folks these days. I could’ve retired much sooner, but there was always something—grandkids, expenses, one of the children’s home repairs. Then my body gave out. My legs wouldn’t hold me, my hands shook, and not a soul lifted a finger to help.
Emily’s boy started school. William had a newborn. I’d looked after the older one since he was a baby. But the little one? I’ve never even held him. No one called, no one asked if I needed help. But I did. I rang them, begged them—pick up my shopping, help around the house. Always the same: “We’re busy,” “Not now,” “We’ve got things on.”
We only saw each other at Christmas. The rest of the time, I managed alone. Until the day I fell in the kitchen and couldn’t get up. I lay on the cold tiles till my neighbour found me. She called an ambulance. I spent five days in hospital. Neither William nor Emily visited. “Work,” they said. When I asked them to fetch me, Emily suggested a taxi. That’s when I knew.
Right after discharge, I contacted social services. Asked about care homes—the good ones, the costs, the paperwork. I won’t spend my last years alone where no one wants me.
When the kids finally visited, I laid it out: if they didn’t start helping, I’d sell both flats, the cottage, and leave. The money would last years in a decent home—proper care, clean sheets, dignity. They’d have to manage on their own.
“Are you blackmailing us?” Emily exploded. “We’ve got mortgages, kids, debts, and you’re only thinking of yourself!”
Yes. Because no one else is. Because I never asked for much—just a scrap of care. I gave you everything. Now I can’t even get someone to heat up soup or help me into bed. Don’t talk to me about being busy. We were all busy, but I always made time for you.
My daughter stormed off. William left without a word. Not a call, not a text in a week. But you know what? I don’t regret it. Because in that silence, in that empty phone, is the truth. They don’t want me. They want 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 a place where, in my last years, someone will at least call me by my name, not “burden.” One thing’s clear now: being a mother doesn’t guarantee your children will stay. Especially when you’ve become inconvenient.
