My children never think of me. I warned them: either help me, or I sell everything and move into a care home.
I’m exhausted. Worn down to trembling hands, an ache in my chest, sleepless nights. My grown children act as if I no longer exist. I gave them everything—my soul, my youth, my health, my love. And they don’t even ask how I am. I told them plainly: either take responsibility for your mother, or I sell it all and move to a proper private care home. I’ll have a room, care, quiet—and not a single disappointment.
My husband and I lived our whole lives for our children. We did everything for our son and daughter. Denied ourselves even the basics so they could have the best. Top tutors, prestigious universities, holidays, the latest gadgets—all bought with our sweat. I thought we were the perfect family. Maybe we spoiled them too much. But how could we not, when we loved them more than life itself?
When Emily married and got pregnant, my husband suddenly died. Just didn’t wake up one morning. Losing him shattered me, and I still haven’t recovered. But I carried on—my daughter was expecting, she needed me. I gave her the flat I inherited from my parents. When our son married, I handed over my mother-in-law’s two-bed in the city centre. They had roofs over their heads, but I didn’t rush the paperwork. I wanted to wait, to see how they’d behave.
I worked until I was 74—longer than most young people do. I could’ve retired much sooner. But there was always something—grandchildren, expenses, one of the kids needing renovations. Then I stopped being able to manage. My legs gave out, my hands shook. And help? None.
My grandson started school. My son had a newborn. I practically raised the eldest from birth. But I’ve never even held the youngest. No one calls, no one asks if I need anything. And I do. I ring them, beg them: 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 one day, I collapsed in the kitchen and couldn’t get up. I lay on the cold tiles until the neighbour found me. She called an ambulance. I spent five days in hospital. Neither my son nor daughter came. “We’re at work,” they said. When I asked them to fetch me, Emily suggested I call a cab. That was it.
As soon as I got out, I contacted social services. Asked about good care homes, the costs, the paperwork. I won’t spend my last years alone where no one wants me.
When the children finally visited, I told them: if you don’t start helping, I’ll sell both flats, the cottage, and leave. The money will last me years in comfort, with proper care. And they’ll have to manage on their own.
“Are you blackmailing us?” Emily snapped. “We’ve got mortgages, kids, debts—and you’re only thinking of yourself!”
Yes, I am. Because no one else thinks of me. Because I never asked for much. Just a little care. I gave you everything. Now I can’t even get someone to pour me soup or straighten my sheets. And don’t talk to me about being busy. We were all busy once, but I always made time for you.
My daughter stormed off. My son left in silence. Not a word since. But you know what? I don’t regret it. Because in that silence, in that absence, is the truth. They don’t need me. They need my things. And if not—then nothing at all.
I don’t know what’ll happen next. Maybe I really will go. Maybe I’ll find a place where, in my old age, someone will at least call me by my name instead of “a burden.” But I’ve learned one thing for certain: being a mother doesn’t mean your children will stay. Especially when you’ve become “inconvenient.”
