“My mother lives in luxury while I count every penny just to survive,” she says, calling my husband a failure.
My life has become a daily struggle, and every phone call from my mother feels like a knife to the heart. She thinks my husband, James, is a useless failure, incapable of providing for his family. Her sarcastic words cut through the line: “So, have you scraped the last crumb off your plate, or are you still holding on?” Doesn’t she see how we’re drowning in worries, trying to give our son a chance at a normal life? This story is about pain, about the rift with my mother, and how James and I keep going despite everything.
We live in a small village outside Manchester, and James is the only one working in our family. Our son, Oliver, is three years old and has Down syndrome. I dedicate every moment to him—helping him grow, making sure he feels loved and wanted. It takes not just energy but also a fortune. We take him to specialised therapy sessions, swimming lessons, and speech therapy. On top of that, there’s the mortgage for our tiny flat, eating up most of our income. Every month is a battle just to make ends meet.
James does his best, but his job isn’t stable. He takes on any odd job he can find, just to get paid on time and not be short-changed. I see how exhausted he is, coming home with empty eyes, but I can’t do anything to help. And then there’s my mother, Margaret Whitmore, pouring fuel on the fire. Her words are poison, making our already difficult life even harder. She doesn’t call to offer comfort—she calls to twist the knife.
She’s never hidden her contempt for James. “What kind of man can’t support his family?” she sneers. She doesn’t understand we’re living in hard times. Finding a good doctor for Oliver was a nightmare—nearly a year of searching, trial and error. Everything costs money: therapy, medication, special food. It’s no secret, yet my mother acts blind to our struggles. She lives in her own world, where everything’s easy.
She owns a one-bedroom flat in central London and rents out another she inherited. Her income is steady, her needs met—she travels, buys expensive things, lives for pleasure. I’ve never asked her for help, always managed on my own. But when she found out about Oliver’s diagnosis, her reaction shattered me. “Well, what else did you expect with a husband like that?” she said, as if James were to blame for our son’s condition. How can anyone be so cruel?
I swallowed the hurt. Arguing with her is useless—she’s always right. Sometimes I think I should set boundaries, protect my family from her venom. But I don’t know how. As a child, we were close—she was my whole world. But when James came into my life, everything changed. She loathed him from the start, and now every call is just another way to belittle us.
I haven’t bought anything for myself in years. James and I save on everything—clothes, food, even small comforts—all for Oliver. I know it’s the right thing—children come first. But it hurts that my mother doesn’t see that. She doesn’t call to ask how Oliver’s doing or how we’re managing. Her words are just a way to mock us, to show how pitiful we are next to her fortune.
My friend Emily knows our situation. She insists my mother will come around, that I should ask for help. But I can’t. It’s too humiliating. I’m tired of her sarcasm, her indifference. I believe this rough patch will end, that James and I will find a way through. But with my mother, I don’t think there’s any fixing things. Her words cut deeper than any of our troubles.
Every day, I look at Oliver’s smile and find the strength to carry on. James, exhausted as he is, still lifts him up, plays with him—and in those moments, I know we’re a real family. Let my mother think we’re failures. We have love, and that’s worth fighting for. And I won’t give up, even if I have to do it without her.
