“Mother lives off my money”—those words sent a chill straight to my bones.
In a small town near Manchester, where the wind howls like ghosts of the past, my life was turned upside down. I, Margaret Whitmore, a woman with a heart full of hope, suffered a blow that still aches in my chest to this day.
**Life Under One Roof**
It so happened that my son, Daniel, moved into my modest flat on the outskirts of town with his wife, Emily, and their children right after their wedding. As a loving mother, I welcomed them with open arms. Together, we celebrated the birth of their little ones, weathered their first illnesses, tantrums, and sleepless nights.
Emily, my daughter-in-law, went on maternity leave with their first, then second, and eventually third child. We took turns calling in sick when the children fell ill. The house became a whirlwind of chores: cooking, cleaning, laundry, the shrieks of children. Rest? That word became a distant dream.
**Retirement—A Deceptive Freedom**
I had waited for my pension like manna from heaven, counting down the days, imagining peace at last. But the calm only lasted six months. Every morning, I drove Daniel and Emily to work, made breakfast for the grandchildren, fed them, took them to nursery and school. With the youngest, little Sophie, I walked in the park where the biting wind cut straight through us. Then back home—lunch, cleaning, laundry. By evening, I was ferrying the children to their music lessons.
My days were regimented like a military drill, yet I still found moments for my hobbies—needlework and reading. Those small escapes were my islands of freedom in an ocean of duty.
**The Blow That Struck Deep**
One evening, a message came through from Daniel. I opened it, and the world stood still. *”Mother lives off my money, and we’re still paying for her bloody prescriptions.”* Those words sliced through me like a knife. At first, I thought it must be some cruel prank. Later, I learned he’d sent it by mistake. But it was too late—his words scorched my soul.
I told Daniel I forgave him, but I couldn’t stay under the same roof with him and his family any longer. The pain didn’t fade, and his words echoed in my mind like betrayal’s aftershock.
**The Bitter Truth**
How could he? Every penny of my pension went into the household. My prescriptions? Most were free for pensioners. Yet my own son saw me as a burden. I didn’t make a scene, didn’t argue. Instead, I found a tiny flat on the other side of town and left, telling them I preferred to live alone.
The rent swallowed nearly my entire pension. Life was tough, but pride wouldn’t let me go back. I remembered buying a laptop just before retiring. Emily had scoffed, *”Margaret, what on earth do you need that for? You’ll never figure it out.”* But I did. My old friend’s daughter helped me learn the basics.
**A New Path**
I started photographing my needlework and posting it online. I asked former colleagues to recommend me. And—miraculously—within a week, my hobby brought in my first earnings. Small sums, but hope nonetheless. I no longer felt dependent on my son.
A month later, a neighbour knocked on my door. She asked if I’d teach her granddaughter to sew—for a fee. The girl, Lily, became my first student. Soon, two more little ones joined. Their parents paid generously, and slowly, colour returned to my life.
**Loneliness and Liberty**
I rarely speak to Daniel’s family now. We meet at holidays, but the closeness is gone. My soul has found peace, though my heart still tightens at the memory. I don’t regret my choice. Now, I live for myself—and my needlework isn’t just a pastime. It’s a stitch in the fabric of my independence.