I’m 59 years old, and lately I feel like my own children look at me as something no one wants to carry.
I raised them alone. Their father left when they were eight.
They were smart from an early age — always top students. I could never afford university for them, but both earned scholarships. One studied graphic design. The other dentistry.
I sold flowers and balloons. Organized raffles. Cleaned offices at night — just to help with tickets, copies, materials that disappeared faster than I could earn the money.
They both graduated.
I thought I had fulfilled my life’s mission.
When Success Created Distance
The designer started working at a well-known studio.
The dentist joined a private clinic.
They both started families.
And somewhere along the way, something between us went cold — without me even realizing when it happened.
They visited less and less. Sometimes three or four weeks passed without replies to my messages. They said they were busy. That adult life was hard. That they couldn’t always give attention.
I tried to understand.
The Request That Changed Everything
A few months ago — after a lifetime of renting and growing tired of loneliness — I told them I wanted to live with one of them.
Not to sit around doing nothing. I know how to cook, clean, take care of a home.
I just wanted company.
I didn’t want to grow old alone.
Their Answers
My older son said it wasn’t a good idea.
He said his wife didn’t feel comfortable because I “criticize too much.” She barely speaks to me, but according to him, it was best “to avoid conflict.”
My younger son said almost the same.
That my personality was “strong.”
That he preferred to avoid arguments.
That his wife needed calm because she struggles with anxiety.
Words I Never Expected to Hear
They told me I had always been “too intense.”
That when they lived with me, I “didn’t let them do anything.”
That I corrected everything.
They even hinted that I was somehow responsible for their poor childhood.
I stood there silently, listening — from the mouths of the same children I carried while working; the same children for whom I stopped buying makeup, clothes, a social life — just so they could get where they are today.
The Accusation That Hurt the Most
One of them said he was worried because I “sometimes drink too much.”
Yes, I do have a few drinks on weekends.
And what of it?
After a lifetime of work and struggle, don’t I have that right?
I never abused them.
Never neglected them.
Never abandoned them.
They know very well that if they ever saw me cry with a glass in my hand, it was because life had exhausted me — not because I wanted to hurt anyone.
Now they use it as a reason not to take me in.
“I’ll Pay for a Room Somewhere”
That’s what the dentist said — the more serious of the two.
He said he didn’t want more problems and would rather pay for a room somewhere else than have me live with him.
The designer added that his wife didn’t feel comfortable because I “think too much” and that it was better not to risk “household peace.”
I reminded them that because of me, they now have that peace. That stability. That future.
They went silent — as if my words were blackmail, not truth.
Where I Am Now
Today, I live in a rented room.
I do what I can to survive.
And even though they’ll never say it out loud, I feel that my children are ashamed of me.
Of my lifestyle.
Of my character.
Of my mistakes.
Of my age.
And I keep asking myself:
When did I stop being the mother who helped them stand on their feet — and become the woman no one wants in their home?