My children have forgotten me: either help me, or I’ll sell everything and move into a care home.
My heart is shattered by grief and loneliness. I’m exhausted from fighting this battle alone while my grown children—the ones I sacrificed everything for—can’t even spare me a thought. I’ve given them an ultimatum: either they start helping me, or I’ll sell everything I own and spend my final years in a care home where someone will look after me.
My husband, William, and I devoted our lives to our children—Benjamin and Poppy. They were our joy, our pride, the reason we denied ourselves luxuries, scrimping and saving to give them the best toys, clothes, and education. Maybe we spoiled them, but it came from boundless love—the kind that only wants more for your children than you ever had.
Private tutors, top universities in London, holidays abroad—we paid for it all. I was so proud of our family, certain it was everything a family should be. We worked ourselves to the bone so they’d never know hardship. Back then, I truly believed they’d be grateful.
Then Poppy married, and soon after, she fell pregnant—but before the joy could settle, William was gone, taken by a sudden heart attack. I barely survived the loss; he was my rock, my other half. But I clung to the hope of being there for Poppy when she needed me. I gave her the flat in central Bristol that I inherited from my parents. When Benjamin married, I handed over his grandmother’s two-bedroom house. My children had roofs over their heads, though I never rushed to sign the deeds over.
Last year, I finally retired—long overdue. At seventy-four, I’d worked harder than most half my age, but my body was failing me. My joints ached, my heart fluttered unsteadily, and every day, I felt life slipping through my fingers.
My eldest grandson, Oliver, had started school, and Benjamin’s second child had just been born. I helped with Oliver when I could, but the new baby? I didn’t have the strength—not that anyone asked. And when I called, begging for the smallest help—groceries, a bit of cleaning—I was met with excuses. Work. Commitments. Exhaustion.
They only visited on holidays. The rest of the time? I was alone, dragging myself through chores despite the pain. Then came the day I collapsed in the kitchen, unable to get up. If not for my neighbour Margaret calling an ambulance, I’d have died there on the cold tiles. In hospital, I waited for my children—but Poppy only said, “Mum, we’re swamped with work.” When I begged Benjamin to collect me upon discharge, he sighed. “Just get a cab. You’re not helpless.”
The moment I was home, I rang social services. Asked them to find a decent care home, to tell me the cost. I was tired of being a burden, tired of the indifference. I wanted to live where someone would care.
When the children finally visited, I steeled myself and said, “Either you start helping, or I sell the properties and move into a home. The money will be enough.” Poppy’s face twisted. “You’re blackmailing us? You’d leave us without homes? We have mortgages, kids, problems—and you’re only thinking of yourself!” Her words cut like glass. After all I’d given, they couldn’t even bring me a glass of water?
Their cruelty crushed me—but it also hardened my resolve. I don’t ask for much. Just the kindness I’ve earned. But they haven’t learned a thing. I won’t waste my last years in silence, feeling like a ghost in my own life. I don’t know what comes next—but I see no other way. Call it a threat if you like. To me, it’s my last chance for dignity.
