My heart shatters with pain and loneliness. I’m tired of fighting alone while my grown children—the ones I sacrificed everything for—barely remember I exist. I’ve given them an ultimatum: either they start helping me, or I’ll sell everything I own and move into a care home where someone will finally look after me.
My husband, William, and I dedicated our lives to our children—our son, Edward, and our daughter, Charlotte. They were our joy, our long-awaited blessings, the reason we denied ourselves everything. We pinched pennies to give them the finest toys, clothes, and education. Maybe we spoiled them too much, but it came from boundless love, from wanting them to have everything we never did in our own youth.
The best tutors, prestigious universities in London, trips abroad—William and I paid for it all. I was so proud of our family. I thought we were the perfect example. We worked ourselves to the bone so they’d never want for anything, so their lives would be better than ours. Back then, I truly believed they’d be grateful.
When Charlotte married and fell pregnant, my world collapsed. William died suddenly of a heart attack. I barely survived the loss—he was my rock, my other half. But I held on for my daughter, knowing she needed me. I gave Charlotte the flat in central Manchester that I’d inherited from my parents. When Edward married, I handed over the two-bedroom flat left by his grandmother. My children had roofs over their heads, but I hesitated to transfer the deeds officially.
Last year, I retired. I should’ve done it sooner, but I held on as long as I could. At 74, I worked harder than most half my age, but my health began failing me. My strength faded, and the pain in my joints and heart became unbearable. I could feel life slipping through my fingers.
My eldest grandson, Oliver, had already started school, and Edward recently welcomed a new baby. I helped with Oliver when I could, but I didn’t have the strength for the newborn. And no one asked me to, either. I could barely manage on my own. When I called my children, begging for the smallest help—groceries, cleaning—they always had an excuse: work, errands, exhaustion.
We only saw each other on holidays. The rest of the time, I was alone, battling daily life despite the weakness and pain. One day, I collapsed in the kitchen and couldn’t get up. If it hadn’t been for my neighbour, Margaret, calling an ambulance, I would’ve died right there on the cold tiles. In hospital, I waited for my children, but all they said was, “Mum, we’re at work—we can’t come.” When it was time to leave, I begged Charlotte to collect me. Her reply was ice: “Take a taxi. You’re not a child.”
The day I was discharged, I contacted social services. I asked them to find me a decent care home and tell me the cost. I’m tired of being a burden, tired of their indifference. I want to live somewhere I’ll actually be cared for.
When my children finally visited, I mustered all my courage and said, “Either you start helping me, or I sell the flats and move into a home. The money will cover it.” Charlotte snapped, “Are you blackmailing us? You’d leave us homeless? We have mortgages, kids, problems—and you only think of yourself!” Her words cut like a knife. I gave them everything, and they can’t even bring me a glass of water?
Their reaction crushed me, but their coldness only steeled my resolve. I’m not asking for much—just a shred of the care I’ve earned. But they haven’t changed. I won’t spend my last years trapped in these four walls, feeling like an inconvenience. I don’t know what comes next, but I see no other way. Call it a threat if you like—but it’s my last chance at a dignified old age.
