**Diary Entry**
My son called today, complaining about life… I knew exactly what he wanted—but I won’t change my mind.
I’m a mother of three: two sons and a daughter, all grown now. I long for grandchildren, though I understand young people today have different priorities—living together first, maybe marriage later, and children pushed to “someday.” I used to naively believe my main job was to raise them to stand on their own two feet, and then I could finally breathe. But it hasn’t worked out that way. If anything, the older they get, the more worry weighs on my shoulders. Maybe it’s because I chose the wrong man—a husband who couldn’t care for himself, let alone his family. Now, all the burdens fall to me.
Let’s start with the eldest. Oliver—my firstborn. Lives at his own pace, in no rush to marry. Always says “it’s not the right time,” “the economy’s bad,” or “I have other priorities.” Fine, at least he isn’t mooching off me.
Emily—my youngest, sharp and sensible. She took her time, figured out who wasn’t right, and chose a decent man. They’ve lived together two years, planning a wedding. For her, I’m almost at ease. Almost.
Then there’s William… my middle child… A whole saga of his own. He’s given me more grey hairs than I care to count.
It started at university. He fell head over heels and announced, “Mum, I’m getting married!” The girl seemed quiet, compliant—until her true colours came out. They rented a flat, money was always tight. Every month, the same plea:
“Mum, help—we can’t cover rent.”
“What about her half?”
“Clara’s saving for her mum’s birthday gift…”
I stretched myself thin to keep him in school, sacrificing my last penny. Then, as these things go, Clara found someone “better” and left. William was shattered. I told myself: a harsh lesson, but necessary.
Under my watch, he finished his degree. I hoped he’d finally grown up. Wishful thinking.
Enter “the love of his life”—Sophie. Oh, how he gushed! “Mum, she’s different—she’s perfect!” First impressions were decent—calm, intelligent. They moved to another city, moved in together. And then—same old story.
William started earning well—enough to support a family. But their money vanished. Never enough for food, rent, anything. Sophie barely worked—”toxic colleagues,” “health issues,” “finding herself.” Five years passed like this: him carrying the load, her whims deciding the rest.
All this time, I chipped in—not because I could afford it, but because it broke my heart. He’s my son. “Mum, we can’t even afford bread!”—what mother wouldn’t help?
Yet every bit of advice fell on deaf ears. If I dared say it wasn’t normal, that money shouldn’t disappear this way—I’d hear:
“Mum, you’ve never liked Sophie. You judge everything she does.”
He doesn’t listen. Doesn’t want to. Then yesterday—another call.
“Mum, I quit my job. No prospects yet. I don’t know what to do.”
I stayed silent. I knew where this was headed. Next would come the plea: Sophie’s earnings are “hers,” but his are “theirs.” That he “just needs a little”—to tide them over.
This time, I answered differently. I told myself: enough.
I won’t solve their problems anymore. Let him learn to be a man. Let him—or Sophie—figure it out. I’m done being the safety net.
I’m not heartless. Just tired—of being their wallet, their therapist, their last resort. It’s time William grew up. Now *I* need strength. How do I keep my resolve when he inevitably says, “Mum, I can’t do this without you”?
I stare out the window, thinking of him. If I give in now, he’ll never stand on his own. But if I hold firm… maybe, just maybe, he’ll become the man he should’ve been years ago.