— Mom, could you help us a bit with some financial support to sort out housing matters? — softly asked Elina, — otherwise, we might have to move in with you.
I felt a tightening inside — it was the last straw. 😞
I didn’t answer right away. I stayed silent for a long time, many years.
I listened, endured, helped. Because I’m a mother. Because I’m a grandmother. Because “if not me, then who?”. It seemed that if I supported them, if I didn’t let them fall, everything would somehow work out, they’d find stability and learn to be independent.
But over time, I realized: I wasn’t just a support — I became someone they depended on too much. Without me, they don’t move forward, don’t learn, don’t grow. They had gotten used to relying on me. And I… I had long stopped living my own life.
Then came that call. A new request. Not just a request, but an insistence. I felt my fingers clench and my heart grow heavy.
That was the last straw. Continued in the comments ⤵️⤵️⤵️
— Elina, — I said calmly — I can’t send you money. And you won’t be moving in with me. I don’t have the means or the desire to be a constant support for you to turn to every time you face difficulties.
Pause. Then shouting. Accusations. Tears.
I turned off the phone.
And then… I went to the sea. To a small Spanish town I had long dreamed of visiting. I bought a ticket, booked a hotel. No plans, no expectations. Just me, the sound of the waves, and a coffee on the terrace at sunset.
A week later, I received a letter from my grandson. Not from Elina — from him. He wrote that he missed me. That he remembered when we baked cookies and when I taught him to draw.
That he had asked his mom not to yell at me anymore. I printed that letter and still carry it in my wallet today.
I haven’t turned away from my family. I simply chose myself.
Because being a mother doesn’t mean completely sacrificing yourself. Being a grandmother doesn’t mean being an ATM 24/7.
Now I live more quietly and peacefully — finally for myself. And you know what? I’m happy.
