*”Mum lives off my money”*those words chilled me to the bone. *”Mums living on my back”*the sheer horror of that sentence still haunts me. Even now, I cant forget the day I read my sons message, the one that turned my blood to ice. My quiet life in my London flat was flipped upside down, and the sting of his words still echoes in my heart.
Years ago, my son Oliver and his wife, Emily, moved in with me right after their wedding. We celebrated the births of their children together, weathered illnesses and first steps. Emily took maternity leave with their first, then their second and third. When she couldnt manage, I took time off work to look after my grandkids. The house became a whirlwind of cooking, cleaning, laughter, and the occasional toddler meltdown. Rest was a luxury, but Id grown used to the chaos.
I counted down the days to my pension like a prisoner awaiting parole, dreaming of peace. But my little idyll lasted all of six months. Every morning, Id drive Oliver and Emily to work, whip up breakfast for the grandkids, feed them, pack them off to nursery and school. With the youngest in tow, wed stroll to the park, then hurry home to cook lunch, scrub dishes, and tidy up. Evenings were spent ferrying them to piano lessons and football practice.
My days ran like clockwork, but I still stole moments for my passionreading and embroidery. It was my refuge, a tiny island of calm in the madness. Then came the text from Oliver. When I read it, my heart stopped. At first, I thought it was some cruel joke. Later, he admitted hed sent it by mistakenot meant for me. But the damage was done. His words scorched my soul: *”Mums living on my back, and were still shelling out for her prescriptions.”* I told him I forgave him, but I couldnt stay under the same roof.
How could he say that? Every penny of my pension went on household expenses. Most of my meds were free anyway, thanks to my age. But his words laid bare the truth. I didnt scream, didnt make a scene. Instead, I quietly rented a tiny flat and moved out, claiming Id be happier alone.
The rent swallowed nearly my entire pension. I had barely enough left, but Id sooner eat stale toast than ask Oliver for help. Before retiring, Id bought myself a laptop, despite Emilys snide *”Youll never figure it out.”* Well, I figured it out. A friends daughter taught me the basics, and soon I was snapping photos of my embroidery and posting them online. Old colleagues spread the word, and within a week, my hobby brought in my first earnings. Small sums, but enough to prove I wouldnt vanishor grovel.
A month later, a neighbour knocked, asking if Id teach her granddaughter to sewfor pay. That little girl was my first student. Soon, two more joined, their parents paying generously. Bit by bit, life steadied.
But the wound in my heart hasnt healed. I barely speak to Olivers family now. We only meet at weddings and Christmasespolite, distant, like strangers bound by blood and regret.
