“Mother lives off my pocket” those words chilled me to the bone. “Mums a burden on my back” the moment I read my sons message, my blood ran cold. My life in our Manchester flat turned upside down, and the pain of his words still echoes in my heart.
Years ago, my son William and his wife, Emily, moved in with me right after their wedding. We celebrated the births of their children together, weathered illnesses, and cheered first steps. Emily took maternity leave with their first, then their second and third. When she couldnt manage, I took sick days to care for my grandchildren. The house became a whirlwind of cooking, cleaning, laughter, and tears. There was no time to rest, but Id grown used to the chaos.
I counted down the days to my pension like a lifeline, dreaming of peace. But the calm only lasted half a year. Every morning, I drove William and Emily to work, made breakfast for the kids, fed them, took them to nursery and school. With the youngest, Id stroll in the park, then hurry home to cook lunch, clean, and wash. Evenings were for music lessons.
My days were planned to the minute. Still, I stole moments for my passionreading and embroidery. It was my refuge, a quiet corner in the storm. Then one day, a message from William stopped me dead.
At first, I thought it a cruel joke. Later, he admitted hed sent it by mistake, not meant for me. But the damage was donehis words scorched my soul: *”Mums riding on my back, and were still shelling out for her meds.”* I told him I forgave him, but I couldnt live under the same roof.
How could he say that? Every penny of my pension went on the house. Most of my prescriptions were free. But his words laid bare his true feelings. I stayed quiet, made no scene. Instead, I rented a tiny flat and left, claiming Id be better off alone.
The rent swallowed nearly my whole pension. I had barely anything left, but I refused to ask William for help. Before retiring, Id bought a laptop, despite Emily scoffing, *”Youll never manage.”* But I did. A friends daughter taught me the basics.
I started photographing my embroidery and posted it online. Old colleagues spread the word. Within a week, my hobby brought in the first bit of cashmodest sums, but enough to prove I wouldnt vanish or grovel to my son.
A month later, a neighbour asked if Id teach her granddaughter to sewfor pay. The girl was my first pupil. Two more soon joined. The parents paid generously, and slowly, life brightened.
But the wound in my heart hasnt healed. I barely speak to Williams family now. We only meet at gatherings.
