My own children accuse me of not buying them flats! There’s never enough money… Am I really such a terrible father?
Good people, lend me your ears.
I, Thomas Whitaker, have mustered the courage at last to pour out my sorrow and seek your counsel. Nearing eighty now, I’ve strived all my life to be a decent man, an honest father. Yet here I sit, wondering—have I truly gone astray? My own flesh and blood, my children, hound me without respite, showering me with reproaches, and I don’t know how to bear it.
Not long ago, we had a small family gathering at our old cottage in the countryside near York. I’d hoped for warmth, for shared memories. But then my son, James, arrived—already deep in his cups, eyes glazed. He began picking quarrels, first with his sister, then her husband. As a father, I gently tried to calm him, to say such behaviour wasn’t fitting. And what came next? He erupted! Screaming that I should keep my lectures to myself, that I’d ruined his life. “Other parents buy their children houses—what have you ever given me?” he slurred, swaying on his feet.
I stood dumbstruck. Then my daughter, Eleanor, instead of standing by me, echoed his words. “Yes, Father, because of you, James and I are still stuck in rented rooms! You couldn’t even manage a bedsit for us, could you?” I stared at them, unable to believe my ears.
Truth be told, my late wife, God rest her soul, and I worked ourselves to the bone. We were schoolteachers—I taught mathematics, she literature. We lived in a modest village near York, loving our work with every fibre of our being. Ours was a generation that knew the worth of labour, respected elders, and counted every penny. We never took what wasn’t ours, nor did we want for necessities. There was always food, always clothes. We raised our children, gave them an education. James, though, left university—too lazy, he was—and Eleanor, though she graduated, never pursued her profession. Whether she couldn’t or wouldn’t, I’ll never know.
Where did I go wrong?
It seems we failed to pass on what we held dear. I’d dreamt of a quiet old age—sitting on the porch, minding grandchildren, delighting in their laughter. And now? James is divorced, drowning in drink, unwilling to hear of children. Eleanor has twins, but they do nothing but stare at their phones and tablets. Once, I remarked that it wasn’t right—children ought to engage with the world, not screens. But she snapped, “Father, leave off—times have changed!” How am I to reach them, I ask you?
But the bitterest pill is their ingratitude. They don’t see all we did for them! Flats? Where would we get such money? We lived on a teacher’s wage, now scraping by on a pension. Even now, an old man, I squirrel away what I can—a little extra for holidays, sweets for the grandchildren. And yet they throw it in my face, blame me for their misfortunes, as if I’d withheld fortunes from them.
Money—the eternal trouble.
How could I possibly buy them flats? Alone now, my pension scarcely covers bread. Yet they demand as though I were a lord of the manor! James is forever in debt, drinking away his earnings, while Eleanor and her husband complain rent swallows their wages. I tried reasoning with my son: “James, your mother and I raised you in harder times, yet we never whinged. Why can’t you stand on your own?” But he just waved me off: “You don’t understand, Father.”
Their words break my heart. Am I at fault for not becoming wealthy? Does all I gave—love, care, an honest name—count for nothing? My grandchildren grow, yet I barely know them; they show no interest. Once, Eleanor brought them for the weekend, but they spent the day glued to their gadgets. I suggested, “Let’s go to the stream, gather blackberries!” But they brushed me off: “Grandad, don’t bother us.” And my daughter scolded *me* for not understanding.
Tell me, good folk—am I the one gone wrong? Or are these truly such times that children expect riches, not love, from their parents? All my life I believed family was a refuge, yet now I feel a stranger among my own kin. Did I fail in raising them? Or has the world turned upside down, where a father’s love is worthless without pounds behind it?
I’d welcome any wisdom you might share. I long to know where truth lies, where my fault begins. Perhaps you can guide me—how to bear this weight upon my heart?
