My own children blame me for not buying them flats! There’s never enough money… Am I really such a terrible father?
Good people, lend me your ears!
I, William Ashford, have finally mustered the courage to pour out my sorrow and seek your counsel. Past seventy now, I’ve spent my whole life striving to be a good man, an honest father—yet here I sit, wondering if I’ve lost my wits. My own flesh and blood hound me with accusations, leaving me adrift in my own heart.
Not long ago, we gathered for a modest family occasion in our old cottage near York. I’d hoped for warm reminiscence, but then my son Edward arrived—already deep in his cups, eyes glazed. He began picking quarrels—first with his sister, then her husband. As his father, I gently tried to guide him, to say such behaviour was unseemly. And what happened? He flew into a fury! Shouting 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 stunned. Then my daughter, Eleanor, instead of standing by me, echoed his words like some cruel chorus. “Yes, Father, because of you, Edward and I are still stuck in rented rooms! You could’ve at least helped with a deposit, but you…” I stared at them, disbelief choking me.
Truth be told, my late wife—God rest her soul—and I worked our fingers to the bone. Schoolteachers, we were—I taught arithmetic, she literature. We lived in a quiet village near York, loved our work with every fibre of our being. Ours was a generation that knew the worth of labour, respected elders, counted every penny. We never took what wasn’t ours, yet never starved either. There was always food, decent clothes. We raised our children, gave them an education. Edward, mind you, dropped out of university—too lazy for books—while Eleanor finished her degree but never used it. Too proud or too idle, who knows?
Where did I go wrong?
Perhaps my wife and I failed to plant in them what grew so deeply in us. I’d dreamt of a peaceful old age—sitting on the porch, bouncing grandchildren on my knee, listening to their laughter. And now? Edward’s already divorced once, drinks like a fish, wants no part in fatherhood. Eleanor has twins, but those children live glued to screens. Once, I dared suggest they ought to play outside, learn the world beyond pixels. She snapped, “Father, leave off—it’s a different time now!” How am I to bridge this chasm?
But the bitterest pill is their ingratitude. They’re blind to all we sacrificed! Flats? Where would I get such money? We scraped by on teachers’ wages, now eke out a pensioner’s existence. Even now, I squirrel away bits of my pittance—for birthday tokens, sweets for the grandchildren. Yet they throw it in my face that I’ve blighted their lives, that I’ve given them nothing.
Money—the eternal curse
How could I possibly buy them property? A widower on a meagre pension, barely keeping bread on my own table. Yet they demand as though I’m some lord of the manor! Edward drowns in debt, drinks his earnings dry, while Eleanor and her husband moan about rent devouring their wages. I tried reasoning with my son: “Edward, your mother and I raised you through lean years without complaint. Why can’t you stand on your own feet?” He just waved me off: “You don’t understand anything, Father.”
Their words cleave my heart in two. Am I to blame for not becoming a wealthy man? Does all I gave—love, care, an honourable name—count for nothing? The grandchildren grow, yet I’m a stranger to them—they show no interest. Once, Eleanor brought them for the weekend, but they spent hours hunched over devices. When I suggested a walk by the river, maybe foraging for blackberries, they muttered, “Grandad, don’t bother us.” And my own daughter scolded me for being out of touch.
Tell me, good people—am I the mad one here? Have times truly changed so much that children expect fortunes, not affection, from their parents? All my life I believed family was an anchor—now I feel like an outsider in my own bloodline. Did I fail in raising them? Or has the world turned upside down, where a father’s love means nothing without gold behind it?
I’d welcome any wisdom you might share. I need to untangle truth from my own failings. Perhaps you could show me how to bear this weight upon my soul.