**Diary Entry – 12th November**
My children don’t spare me a thought. I’ve made it clear—either they step up and help, or I sell everything and move into a care home.
I’m exhausted. Bone-tired, to the point of trembling hands, a constant ache in my chest, and sleepless nights. My grown children act as though I’ve already passed. I gave them everything—my youth, my health, my love. And they can’t even ask how I am. So I laid it out plainly: either take responsibility for your mother, or I 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 late husband and I lived entirely for our children. We denied ourselves even the basics so they could have the best—top tutors, prestigious universities, holidays, gadgets—all bought with our sweat. I truly believed we were the perfect family. Maybe we spoiled them. But how could we not, when we loved them more than life itself?
When Emily married and fell pregnant, my husband passed suddenly—just didn’t wake one morning. It shattered me. But I carried on; our daughter needed me. I gave her the flat from my parents. Then when James married, I handed over the two-bedder from my in-laws. They had roofs over their heads, but I held off on signing anything. I wanted to see how they’d treat me.
I worked till 74—longer than most young people today could stomach. I could’ve retired years earlier, but there was always something: the grandkids, expenses, one of their flats needing repairs. Then my body gave out. My legs buckle, my hands shake. And help? None.
Emily’s boy started school. James has a newborn. I practically raised the eldest, but I’ve never even held the baby. No one calls. No one asks if I need anything. And I do. When I ring, begging for groceries or help round the house, it’s always the same: “We’re busy,” “Not now,” “We’ve got our own lives.”
We only meet at Christmas. The rest of the time, I struggle alone—until the day I collapsed in the kitchen and couldn’t get up. I lay there until the neighbour found me. The ambulance took me in. Five days in hospital. Neither of them came. “Work,” they said. When I begged for a lift home, Emily told me to book a taxi. That’s when I knew.
After discharge, I rang social services. Asked about the best care homes, costs, contracts. I won’t spend my last years alone, unwanted.
When they finally visited, I told them: start helping, or I sell both flats, the cottage, and move out. The money would buy me years of comfort and care. They’d have to manage on their own.
“Are you blackmailing us?” Emily snapped. “We’ve got mortgages, kids, debts—and you’re being selfish!”
Yes, selfish. Because no one else gives a damn. I never asked for much—just a little kindness. I gave you everything. Now I can’t even get someone to warm up soup or change my sheets. Don’t tell me you’re too busy. I was busy too, but I always made time for you.
Emily stormed out. James left without a word. A week’s gone by—not a peep. But you know what? I don’t regret it. Their silence says it all. They don’t want me. They want what I own. And if not that, then nothing at all.
Maybe I will leave. Find a place where, in my old age, someone might at least call me by my name instead of “a burden.” One truth’s crystal clear now: being a mother doesn’t guarantee your children’ll stay. Especially when you’ve become inconvenient.
**Lesson learned:** Love given freely doesn’t always find its way back. Sometimes, you have to choose yourself—because no one else will.
