My mother, Margaret Whitmore, seems to have erased me and my children from her life. I’m juggling two little ones who demand constant attention, while she, their own grandmother, won’t even lift a finger to help. It eats away at me, and I don’t know how to handle the loneliness and resentment.
Why does she do this? I can’t figure it out. We drifted apart when I left our family home in Manchester at eighteen to start my own life. Since then, our interactions have boiled down to the occasional phone call. I hoped my children’s births would bring us closer, but every time I ask her to visit or just listen, she cuts me off after a minute: “Emma, I’ve got things to do.” What could possibly matter more than family?
Mum always drilled independence into me. Growing up, she insisted I learn to stand on my own two feet. But at eighteen, I had to claw my way through life—finding work, renting a shoebox flat, counting every penny. I managed, but at what cost? Now that I’m a mother myself, I hoped she’d offer just a bit of support. Instead, there’s nothing.
All her time goes to men. She’s acting like a teenager, chasing dates, searching for “the one,” even though she’s past fifty. I don’t begrudge her happiness, but when it consumes her completely, I can’t stay silent. My kids, her grandchildren, miss her. They ask why she never visits, and I’ve no answer. Every time, she has a new excuse: too busy, too tired, or some “interesting chap” to meet.
Recently, I snapped. After yet another refusal to come over, I called and let it all out: “Mum, have you no shame? At your age, you should be doting on your grandkids, not gallivanting around on dates!” She fired back: “I wasted my best years on you, slaving away with no breaks, raising you alone! Now it’s *my* time, Emma! The kids are *your* responsibility, not mine!” Her words stung. Yes, she sacrificed for me—but does that mean she gets to turn her back on us?
I can feel her slipping away. Over the past two years, we’ve met barely once a month. She’s grown cold, distant. Even her voice lacks the warmth it once had. I’m not asking her to give up everything for us, but is it too much to visit once a week? Sit with the kids, play with them, give me a breather? I’m scared we’ll stop being a family altogether.
How do I make her see that life isn’t just candlelit dinners and new admirers? That her family—her own flesh and blood—matters too? I’m tired of fighting, tired of feeling like an afterthought. Sometimes I wonder—maybe let her find her “prince,” sort her love life, then remember us later? But deep down, I fear “later” might never come.
I don’t want to lose her. But how do I hold on when she’s the one pushing me away? I’m drowning in responsibilities, while she doesn’t even seem to notice how hard it is. Maybe I’m selfish. Or maybe she’s forgotten what it means to be a mother.
