I’m upset with myself for how I raised my children.
Sometimes pain doesn’t come from outside. It lives within, gnawing at your heart, eating away at your soul, bit by bit. I haven’t been angry in a long time—just tired. Quietly hurt. Not at my children, no… at myself. At the way I raised them. Somewhere along the way, my motherly love twisted unconditional care into endless indulgence. And now I’m reaping what I sowed.
Seven years ago, I buried my husband. We were together for forty years, and all that time was given to our family, to our children. We worked without weekends, without holidays, never thinking of ourselves. Everything—for them. For their future. We bought them flats, paid for their education, gave them everything they could dream of. When he passed, I wasn’t just alone—I was without my anchor. And now, two years into my retirement, I sit in a cold flat wondering how it came to this—how the children I lived for now barely seem to notice I exist.
My pension is a joke. Thank goodness for the council tax support, or the lights would’ve been cut long ago. Even so, there’s never enough for medicine, for food, for the simplest things. I asked my children. I didn’t ask for much—just a little help. But my son said, *”What do you need money for?”* My daughter told me, *”We’ve got our own problems.”*
Problems? They go on holiday, buy new clothes, new cars. My daughter’s wardrobe is bursting with designer labels, and her seven-year-old gets two hundred quid a month in pocket money. That two hundred could cover my prescriptions, my groceries. But apparently, she can’t spare it. How does that make sense? Every time I hear it, my chest tightens. I’ve worn the same pair of boots for years—worn through, soles cracked. But I don’t say anything. Too ashamed. And I won’t ask again. Begging only brings humiliation.
I see my friends, my neighbours—their children help. They bring food, pay bills, take them in during winter. But me? It’s like I’ve got no one. And the worst part? I taught them this. My sister and I—we looked after our parents without complaint. Money, food, time—we gave it all willingly. With love. But my children? Mine turned away. It’s not just pain—it’s emptiness.
Once, I suggested moving in with my daughter for a year, renting out my flat for extra income. They’ve got the space. She wouldn’t even hear it—just told me to let out a room instead. So, strangers are fine, but her own mother isn’t? To this day, I don’t understand where I went wrong. What did I do?
Now, every day is a battle. How to make it to the end of the month. How not to get sick. How not to die of loneliness. My husband and I gave our children everything—every penny, every bit of strength we had. And now? I’m on the edge of their lives, invisible. Quiet. Resigned. Somewhere inside, there’s still this hope—maybe one day, one of them will remember they’ve got a mother. Not when I’m gone. Now.
But I suppose hope is all I have left.
