My children don’t even remember I exist. I warned them: either they step up, or I sell everything and move into a care home.
I’m exhausted. So exhausted my hands tremble, my chest aches, and sleep won’t come. My grown children act as if I’ve already faded away. I gave them everything—my soul, my youth, my health, my love. And they can’t even ask how I am. I put it bluntly: either take responsibility for your mother, or I sell it all and settle into a decent private care home. A room, proper care, peace—and no more disappointment.
My husband and I lived for our children. We sacrificed everything for our son and daughter. Went without even the basics so they could have the best. Top tutors, prestigious universities, holidays, gadgets—all paid for by our sweat. I thought we were the perfect family. Maybe we spoiled them too much. But how could we not? You love your children more than life itself.
When Emily married and fell pregnant, my husband died unexpectedly. Just didn’t wake up one morning. His death shattered me, and I’ve never truly recovered. But I held on—my daughter needed me. I gave her the flat I inherited from my parents. When William married, I handed over his mother-in-law’s place—a two-bed in central London. They had roofs over their heads, but I didn’t rush the paperwork. I wanted to see how they’d treat me.
I worked until I was 74—longer than most young people do. I could’ve retired years earlier, but there was always something: grandchildren, expenses, one of the kids needing a home repair. Then my body gave out. My legs failed me, my hands shook. And the help? Nonexistent.
Emily’s son started school. William had a newborn. I’d cared for the eldest since birth, but I hadn’t even held the youngest. No one called. No one asked if I needed anything. But I did. I rang them, begged: buy me groceries, help around the house. Always the same answer—*”We’re busy,” “Not now,” “We’ve got things on.”*
We only saw each other on holidays. The rest of the time, I struggled alone. Until the day I collapsed in the kitchen and couldn’t get up. I lay on the cold tiles until my neighbour found me. She called an ambulance. I spent five days in hospital. Neither William nor Emily came. *”Work,”* they said. When I asked them to take me home, Emily told me to book a taxi. That’s when I knew.
The day I was discharged, I contacted social services. Asked about the best care homes, fees, contracts. I refuse to spend my last years alone, where no one waits for me.
When the kids finally visited, I laid it out: start helping, or I sell both flats, the cottage, and leave. The money will last years—proper care, dignity. They’ll have to manage on their own.
*”You’re blackmailing us?”* Emily snapped. *”We’re drowning in mortgages, kids, debt, and you’re only thinking of yourself?”*
Yes. Because no one else is. I never asked for much—just a little kindness. I gave you everything. Now, I can’t even get someone to heat up soup or tuck me in. Don’t talk to me about being busy. I was busy too, but I always made time for you.
Emily stormed out. William left without a word. A week later, still no call. No message. But you know what? I don’t regret it. Because in that silence—that’s 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. Find a place where, in my old age, someone might at least say my name instead of calling me a “burden.” One thing’s clear now: being a mother doesn’t guarantee your children will stay. Especially when you’ve become *inconvenient*.
