For a decade now, I have lived abroad. And I dont wish to return home, even though my sons and their wives are there.
No, I am not some spiteful mother who abandoned her children to fend for themselves. Please, spare a few moments and read my story to the end before making judgments. Theres one thing Ill say in my defenceonly God can judge me.
Why did I leave England? The reason is simplemoney. My husband left me years ago, vanishing and leaving me to raise two sons by myself. I had twins. I wont dwell on their childhood; those memories are too heavy. There was never enough money for clothing or food.
Then, my friend arriveda godmother to my eldest. Shed worked in London for quite some time. She offered to help me find work there.
I agreed without hesitation. My sons had just finished school, grown men now, capable of managing on their own.
I was welcomed warmly.
I called my sons every evening. But their conversations always revolved around money:
Can you send us some cash?
I sent it yesterday. Where has it gone?
Well, we bought groceries and paid the bills. Why ask such silly questions?
I didnt realise my friend overheard our calls.
Your boys dont value your sacrifices. Theyre old enough to work. Make sure you dont regret your choicesshe advised me.
I paid little attention to her words. She had neither a husband nor childrenhow could she know what family life meant?
Three years ago, she passed away. I saw it as a signthat perhaps it was time to head back home.
Oh, why are you here? my son asked as he opened the door.
Is that how you greet your mother? I joked.
But my joy was short-lived. My sons girlfriend had been living in our flat for nearly a year. She looked at me askance and didnt bother to say hello.
Is she staying long? whispered the young woman.
I dont know, but I hope she leaves soon.
I dont want anyone else living here but us!
It was cleara stranger would rule my own home. And it turned out my eldest son had gone on a trip with his matesthats why he kept asking for money.
Long story short, I couldnt stand it for even a week. Everything in the flat felt unfamiliar, not mine. I couldnt sleep comfortably, not even in my own bed. The youngsters pushed me into the lounge and took over my bedroom.
The girlfriend blamed me for everythingthe mug, noisy footsteps, or simply popping to the loo late at night. Her final act was tossing out all our family keepsakesold albums, my grandmothers recipe book, and she even tried to pawn my jewellery.
I dont want any of this rubbish cluttering up my home! And my son agreed with her on every point.
Angry and hurt, I packed my bags and bought a train ticket. No, nobody loved me here, nor wanted to see me. I was merely in the way.
Ten years have gone by since then. My sons rarely call. They dont care about my life. Sons is nothing more than a word to me now. I hope that, at least here, I might find a little happiness.
Do you agree with the womans words? Why?
