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. Bone-tired, with hands that shake and a chest that aches from sleepless nights. My grown-up children act as though I’ve already vanished. I gave them everything—my soul, my youth, my health, my love. And yet, they can’t even ask how I am. So I told them straight: either take responsibility for your mother, or I’ll sell the lot and settle into a decent private care home. I’ll have my own room, proper care, peace—and no more disappointments.
My husband and I lived entirely for our children. For our son and daughter, we sacrificed everything. We denied ourselves even the basics so they could have the best—top tutors, prestigious universities, holidays, gadgets. All bought with our sweat and tears. 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 married and got pregnant, my husband died suddenly. Just didn’t wake up one morning. Losing him shattered me, and I’ve never truly recovered. But I carried on—Emily needed me, especially with the baby coming. I handed her the flat I inherited from my parents. And when Simon married, I gave him his late grandmother’s two-bedroom place in central London. They had roofs over their heads, but I held off on signing the deeds. I wanted to see how they’d treat me first.
I worked until I was 74—longer than most young folks manage. I could’ve retired much earlier, but there were always reasons to stay: the grandkids, unexpected expenses, one of the children needing a house repair. Then my body gave out. My legs buckle, my hands tremble. And help? Nowhere to be found.
Emily’s eldest started school. Simon’s got a newborn. I practically raised the first grandchild from birth. But the second? I haven’t even held him. No calls, no visits, no “Mum, do you need anything?” And I did. I rang them, begged: “Pick up some shopping, help me tidy up.” Always the same reply—”We’re busy,” “Not now,” “We’ve got things on.”
We only saw each other at Christmas. 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. The ambulance took me in. Five days in hospital. Neither Simon nor Emily came. “Work,” they said. When I asked them to fetch me home, Emily suggested a taxi. That’s when I knew.
After discharge, I rang social services. Asked about good care homes, costs, contracts. I won’t spend my last years alone where no one wants me.
When the kids finally visited, I laid it out: start helping, or I’ll sell both flats and the cottage and move out. The money will last years—proper care, decent living. They’ll have to manage on their own.
“You’re blackmailing us?” Emily snapped. “We’ve got mortgages, kids, debts—and you’re only thinking of yourself!”
Yes, I am. Because no one else is. I never asked for much. Just a shred of care. 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. Simon left without a word. A week later, still nothing. But you know what? I don’t regret it. This silence speaks the truth. They don’t want me. They want my property. And if that’s gone? Then I’m nothing.
I don’t know what comes next. Maybe I’ll leave. Maybe I’ll find a place where, in my old age, someone will at least call me by my name—not “a burden.” One thing’s clear now: being a mother doesn’t mean your children will stay. Especially when you’ve become inconvenient.
