My name is Margaret, Im 68 years old, and for many years I truly believed I had done my very best for my children.
Now, it seems they dont see it that way.
I was a single mother, although that was never what I wanted. My husband left on an ordinary day and didnt come back. There were no goodbyes, no explanations. He just vanished and I was left on my own to raise our children. Later, I heard through neighbours that hed gone off with another woman. He never confirmed itI never saw him again, he never came back to look his own children in the eye. He simply disappeared from our lives.
Back then, my children were only six and fourso little, so dependent, and I was utterly alone. I had no family to turn to for support. I came from a very poor, tight-knit neighbourhood in Liverpoolthe sort of place you leave to seek a better life, only to find yourself without a safety net or anyone to call when everything starts falling apart.
My children dont blame me for the times there was barely enough food or a roof over our heads. I made sure they always had what they needed, at least I tried. What they do blame me for is what I failed to give them emotionally.
I was a strict mothernot out of cruelty, but out of fear. I was raised believing love was shown by sacrifice, not words; by discipline, not cuddles. To support us, I worked in a textile factory. I chose that job because it meant I could be home after lunchwatch over my children, make sure theyd eaten, knew they were safe. In the evenings, when it grew dark, Id head out to sell homemade pies and scones. My eyes were tired, my body exhausted, but need kept me going.
Pulling these double shifts was the only way I managed to keep us afloat. I worked so much. My body was present, but my heart was absent far more than it should have been. There were days I came home snappy, with no patience for chatter. When they cried, I told them not to make a fuss. When they needed attention, I gave them orders instead. When they slipped up, I corrected them more than I comforted. I was never the cuddly mumthey got responsibility and coldness instead.
Then everything came crashing down. We lived in a tiny rented flatjust enough room for us to sleep. With no father and one wage, the money never stretched far enough. There were days I had to choosepay the rent or buy food. I always chose to feed my children. Eventually, I fell behind with paymentsone rent, then another, until one day we were evicted.
I remember that day so clearly, even now.
I had nowhere to go. With two little ones and a couple of bags, we slept on the living room floor of a kind neighbour across the roadgrateful, at least, not to be on the street. The kids were too small to understand, but I felt every shade of shame, fear, humiliation and utter exhaustion. The neighbours, knowing what we were going through, chipped in a bit of money so we could move into an even tinier bedsitan old building with a shared courtyard. It was cramped, but it was safe.
My children remember shouting where I only recall exhaustion. They remember distance where I remember fighting to survive. They remember fear where I remember fighting as hard as I could not to break. Yet somehow, I raised them. They went to school. They finished. Now, they are educated adults with families and futures of their own.
Now as grown-ups, they look at me differently. They ask why I never asked how they felt, why I didnt protect them more when someone hurt them, why it seemed like everything else was more important than they were.
You looked after us, Mum, but you never hugged us, one of them said to me once. That sentence shattered me. It wasnt lack of love. It was lack of knowing how. No-one ever taught me to be gentle. I was raised to survive, not to feel.
Over time, they started drifting away. They dont visit often. Theyve got their own families, kids, responsibilities. They say theyre busyand I know its true, but it isnt the full story. One day, without knowing how much it would sting, both told me the same thing: their wives are nothing like me. More patient. More affectionate. Much more present with the children. There was no malice in their wordsthey simply explained it. But I heard it as a soft verdict, as if theyd chosen to give their children everything they missed with me.
I realised then, they werent just judging me as a mother from the pastthey were measuring me against the mums who walk beside them today. Maybe its true: life made me bitter, hardened me too early, left exhaustion etched into my voice and my hands.
Now my children sit in judgment, because they finally have the words for what they swallowed quietly as children. I listen to them, even when it hurts. Even when it makes me face myself. Even when it makes me feel small.
Im not sharing this to excuse myself. Yes, I was a mother who never learned to show tenderness. Yes, I made mistakes. And now I understand, even if its too late. But I also know I did what I could, with who I was at the time. I loved as best I knew. No-one can give what they have never had.
Maybe one day theyll see the whole mother, not just her mistakes. Maybe they wont. Being a mother doesnt mean being perfect. It means loving, even when you have no idea how to do it right. And though my children now see me as their judge and jury, I hope that God sees me as a motherwith mercy, with truth and with a love that doesnt condemn, but heals.
