Oh, bloody hell… my own kids are giving me grief because I haven’t bought them each a flat! Money’s always tight—does that make me a terrible dad?
Alright, listen… I’m Malcolm here, Malcolm Bennett, and I’m just at my wits’ end. I’m pushing seventy now, spent my whole life trying to do right by my family, and here I am wondering if I’ve gone daft. My own flesh and blood, my kids, won’t give me a moment’s peace, just hurling blame my way, and I don’t know how to cope with it.
Just the other week, we all got together at our old place in Norwich—figured it’d be nice, yeah? A bit of a family catch-up. But then my son William turns up already half-cut, eyes all glassy, stirring trouble with his sister and her husband. I tried to settle him down, you know, fatherly-like, told him to mind his manners. And what does he do? Flips his lid! Starts yelling that I ruined his life, that I’ve never done anything for him. “Other parents buy their kids houses, and what’ve you ever given me?” he slurs, swaying like a loose fence in the wind.
I was gobsmacked. And then my daughter Emily chimes in, backing him up! “Yeah, Dad, because of you, we’re still stuck renting! You couldn’t even get us a bedsit!” I just stood there, staring at them, wondering if I’d tripped into some bloody nightmare.
Look, my late wife—God rest her—and I worked our fingers to the bone. I taught maths, she taught English, both of us in a little town outside Norwich. We loved what we did, proper proud of it. Raised our kids right, got them educated—William dropped out of uni, mind, couldn’t be bothered, and Emily finished but never used her degree. Don’t even know if she couldn’t or just didn’t fancy it.
Where did I go wrong?
Maybe we didn’t pass on what we had in us—hard work, respect. I dreamed of a quiet retirement, sitting in the garden with the grandkids, hearing them laugh. But now? William’s divorced, drinks too much, won’t even talk about having kids of his own. Emily’s got twins, but they’re glued to their phones and tablets. I said once, “Why not go outside, explore a bit?” And Emily snaps, “Dad, get with the times!” How am I meant to connect with them?
The worst part? The bloody ingratitude. They don’t see what we sacrificed! Flats? Where’d we get that kind of money? We lived off teachers’ wages, now it’s just my pension keeping me afloat. I still scrimp and save—birthday money for them, sweets for the grandkids. And they throw it all back in my face, saying I ruined their lives because they’ve got nothing.
Money’s always the problem.
How am I supposed to buy them flats? I’m alone now, pennies to my name, barely covering bills. And they act like I’m some bloody tycoon! William’s always in debt, drinks away his pay, and Emily and her husband moan about rent eating their wages. I told him once, “Will, your mum and I made do in harder times—why can’t you?” He just waved me off: “You don’t get it, Dad.”
Breaks my heart, it really does. Am I supposed to feel guilty for not being rich? Is love, care, a good name—is that worth nothing now? The grandkids barely know me—no interest. Emily brought them round once, and they spent the whole day staring at screens. I said, “Fancy a walk? Maybe down by the river?” and they just mumbled, “Grandad, leave off.” And Emily had a go at me for not “understanding” them.
So tell me… am I the mad one here? Or is this how it is now—kids expecting handouts instead of love? I thought family was everything, but now I feel like a stranger in my own home. Did I mess up raising them? Or has the world gone upside down, where a father’s love means nothing unless it comes with a bloody fortune?
Honestly, I’d take any advice. Just need to know—is it me, or is it them? And how the hell do I carry on with this weight in my chest?
