The words of Molly echo in my head like a sudden clap of thunder on a clear afternoon. I sit on the sofa in our modest flat in Brighton, sunlight spilling through the curtains and warming the family photos that line the wall. My husband Paul flips through the newspaper, unaware of the storm gathering around me. My fingers tremble as I clutch my phone.
“Molly, what are you saying?” I whisper, trying not to let the knot in my stomach show.
On the other end I hear only his laboured breathing. “Mum, we can’t keep living like this. The bills keep climbing, Matthew’s tuition is a fortune, and Mark and I are working ourselves to the bone, yet it never seems enough. And you… you’re always out somewhere, spending weekends at the spa, eating out…”
I feel the air thin. I glance at Paul, who looks up from his paper and fixes me with a worried stare. “What’s happening?” he asks softly.
I don’t answer straight away. Inside me, a fierce battle rages between the urge to help my daughter and the need—finally—to think about myself. After forty years of hospital shifts and sleepless nights, scraping by, now that my pension lets us afford a few small luxuries, should I give those up?
“Paul, you know that if we can help her, we’ll do it…” he begins.
Molly cuts in, her voice breaking: “Mum, it’s not just about the money! I feel alone. I need you. More time, more presence… and it seems you’re drifting away.”
I stay silent, feeling the weight of her words press against my chest. Paul takes my hand, searching my eyes. “Tell her we’ll go over tomorrow,” he murmurs.
I nod slowly. “Molly, we’ll come to your place tomorrow for lunch. Let’s talk calmly.”
She exhales, almost relieved. “Alright. Thank you.”
When I hang up, a hollow emptiness settles over me. Paul wraps his arms around me. “It’s not fair,” he mutters into my hair. “We’ve given them everything. Now we can’t even enjoy a bit of life ourselves?”
I step back and meet his blue eyes, speckled with age spots. “Maybe we’ve done something wrong…”
He shakes his head. “We’ve fulfilled our duty.”
That night I can’t sleep. I replay childhood memories with Molly: racing through the park, doing homework together at the kitchen table, laughing on cheap beach holidays, holding onto happiness despite having little. When did she start feeling we weren’t enough? When did I stop being her safe haven?
The next day we arrive at their house with a homemade cake and a forced smile. Molly greets us with tears in her eyes, while Mark silently squeezes our hands. Matthew darts over: “Grandma! Grandpa!”
During lunch the atmosphere is tense. Mark says little, and Molly tries to be polite, though she throws sharp glances now and then.
At one point Mark snaps, “We don’t need your money, just a bit of understanding! It feels like everything is on our shoulders.”
Paul freezes. “We’ve always been there! But now we need to think about ourselves too.”
Molly jumps in, “So why does it feel like a burden when we ask for help? Don’t you see we’re exhausted?”
I feel pulled in every direction. I want to shout that I’m tired too, that I deserve a little peace, after a life of self‑sacrifice. Yet I see desperation in my daughter’s eyes and my heart tears.
“Perhaps we’ve given the impression we don’t care,” I say quietly. “But that’s not true. We just… we just need a breath of fresh air.”
The lunch ends in silence. We head home with a sense of defeat.
In the following days Paul withdraws. He stops talking about our retirement plans, no longer suggests trips or evenings out. I spend my days worrying about how to help Molly without losing myself completely.
One evening my sister Lucy, who lives in Manchester, calls.
“I heard from Molly that you’re in crisis,” she says straight away.
“I don’t know what to do,” I admit through tears. “I feel selfish when I think about myself, but if I give up everything for them, I feel like I’m dying.”
Lucy sighs. “In England it’s always like that. Parents are expected to be constantly available, even when they’re utterly exhausted. But who looks after you?”
I stay silent.
“Talk it over with Paul,” Lucy continues. “And, above all, speak to Molly as a mother to a daughter, not as an ATM.”
Her words linger with me.
The next day I invite Molly for coffee at the little café down the road. She arrives, shoulders slumped, eyes heavy with fatigue.
“Mum, I’m sorry about the other day,” she says immediately.
I take her hand. “Molly, I love you more than life itself. But I’m human too. I need to feel alive, not just useful.”
She looks down. “I know… sometimes it all feels too much.”
“I understand,” I reply gently. “We need to find a balance. I can’t solve every problem for you, but I can be here as your mother.”
We talk for a long while, tears mixing with tentative smiles.
On the walk home I feel a lighter weight on my chest, yet the question remains: where does parental duty end and the right to happiness begin?
Sometimes I wonder: is it truly selfish to want a little peace after a life of self‑sacrifice, or just fear of losing my usefulness?
What do you think: should a pension belong only to parents, or to the whole family?
