**Diary Entry**
The words “Mum lives at my expense” sent a chill down my spine. Even now, I can’t shake the memory of that message from my son, the one that made my blood run cold. My life in our family home in Manchester was turned upside down, and the sting of his words still lingers in my chest.
Years ago, my son William and his wife Charlotte moved in with me right after their wedding. Together, we celebrated the arrival of their children, nursed them through illnesses, and cheered their first steps. Charlotte was on maternity leave with their first, then the second, then the third. When she couldn’t manage, I took sick days to look after the grandchildren. The house became a whirlwind of cooking, cleaning, laughter, and tears. There was never a moment’s rest, but I accepted the chaos.
I’d counted down the days to my pension, dreaming of peace. But that quiet life lasted barely six months. Every morning, I drove William and Charlotte to work, made breakfast for the children, fed them, dropped them at nursery and school. With the youngest, we’d walk in the park, then hurry home to cook lunch, do laundry, tidy up. In the evenings, I ferried them to music lessons.
My days were packed, minute by minute. Still, I snatched moments for my hobbies—reading and embroidery. It was my escape, my quiet refuge in the madness. Then, one day, I got a message from William. Reading it, I froze, sure it must be some cruel joke. Later, he admitted he hadn’t meant to send it to me. But it was too late—his words seared into me: *“Mum lives off us, and we’re even paying for her medicine.”* I told him I forgave him, but I couldn’t stay under the same roof.
How could he write that? I put every penny of my pension into the household. Most of my prescriptions were free as a pensioner. But his words showed me what he really thought. I didn’t argue, didn’t make a scene. Instead, I rented a tiny flat and left, saying living alone would be easier.
The rent swallowed nearly my entire pension. I had almost nothing left, but I refused to ask William for help. Before retiring, I’d bought a laptop—despite Charlotte insisting I “wouldn’t manage.” But I did. My friend’s daughter taught me how to use it.
I started photographing my embroidery and posting it online. Old colleagues spread the word. Within a week, my hobby brought in my first earnings—small sums, but they gave me hope I wouldn’t be left begging my son.
A month later, a neighbour asked if I’d teach her granddaughter to sew. The girl became my first pupil. Soon, two more joined. The parents paid well, and slowly, life improved.
But the wound hasn’t healed. I barely speak to William’s family now. We only meet on…
