I’m perched on the sofa in our modest flat in Brighton, sunlight slipping through the lace curtains and warming the family photos that line the wall. Peter, my husband, is thumbing through the daily, oblivious to the storm gathering on my end. My fingers tremble around the phone.
“Poppy, what are you on about?” I whisper, trying not to let the knot in my stomach show.
On the other end I hear only her laboured breathing. “Mum, we can’t keep going like this. The bills are piling up, university fees for Jack are through the roof, and Mark and I are working round‑the‑clock, yet it never feels enough. And you… you’re always off somewhere, spending weekends at the spa, eating out…”
I’m short of breath. Peter looks up from his paper, concern flickering in his eyes. “What’s happening?” he asks softly.
I don’t answer straight away. Inside, a battle rages between the urge to rescue my daughter and the overdue need to think of myself. After four decades of hospital shifts, sleepless nights and scrimping to make ends meet, now that our pension finally lets us indulge in a few modest luxuries, should I start saying no?
Peter squeezes my hand, searching my gaze. “Tell her we’ll be over tomorrow,” he murmurs.
I nod slowly. “Poppy, we’ll come over for lunch tomorrow. Let’s talk calmly.”
She sighs, a hint of relief in it. “Okay. Thank you.”
When I hang up, an empty ache spreads through me. Peter wraps his arms around me. “It’s unfair,” he mutters into my hair. “We’ve given them everything. Now we can’t even enjoy a bit of life ourselves?”
I step back, meeting his blue eyes speckled with age spots. “Maybe we’ve missed a step somewhere…”
He shakes his head. “We did our duty.”
That night sleep evades me. I replay childhood memories of Poppy—racing through the park, cramming homework together at the kitchen table, laughing on beach trips when money was scarce but joy abundant. 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 bearing a homemade scone and a strained smile. Poppy greets us with watery eyes, Mark gives us a silent, tight handshake, and Jack darts over shouting, “Grandma! Grandpa!”
The lunch is tense. Mark says little, and Poppy tries to be polite while throwing occasional reproachful glances our way.
At one point Mark snaps, “We don’t need your money, just a little understanding! It feels like the whole load is on us.”
Peter freezes, “We’ve always been there! But now we need to think about ourselves too.”
Poppy jumps in, “Why does our asking for help feel like a burden to you? Don’t you see we’re exhausted?”
It pulls me in every direction. I want to shout that I’m tired too, that I deserve a breath after a lifetime of self‑sacrifice. Yet I see desperation in my daughter’s eyes and my heart splits.
“Maybe we’ve given the impression we don’t care,” I say quietly. “But that’s not true. We just… we just need a little room to breathe.”
The meal ends in silence. We return home feeling defeated.
In the days that follow Peter retreats into himself. He no longer talks about our retirement plans, nor suggests trips or dinner out. I spend my own days wrestling with how to help Poppy without losing myself entirely.
One evening my sister Lucy, who lives in York, calls. “I heard from Poppy you’re in a spot,” she says straight.
“I don’t know what to do,” I admit through tears. “I feel selfish thinking about myself, but if I keep giving everything up for them, I feel like I’m dying inside.”
Lucy sighs, “In England it’s always that way. Parents are expected to be on call even when they’re knackered. But who looks after you?”
I’m silent.
“Talk it over with Peter,” Lucy continues. “And when you speak to Poppy, do it as a mother to a daughter, not as an ATM.”
Her words linger.
The next day I invite Poppy for coffee at the little café downstairs. She arrives, eyes heavy with fatigue.
“Sorry about the other day,” she says immediately.
I take her hand. “Poppy, 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 get it,” I reply gently. “We need a balance. I can’t solve every problem, but I can be here as your mum.”
We talk for ages, tears mixing with tentative smiles.
On the walk back home the weight on the chest lightens a bit, yet a question still hums: where does parental duty end and the right to happiness begin?
Sometimes I wonder: is it really selfish to crave a little peace after a lifetime of giving? Or is it just fear of losing the role that made me indispensable?
What do you think? Should a pension belong solely to the parents, or to the whole family?
