I Gave My Flat to My Daughter and Son-in-Law—Now I Sleep on a Folding Bed in the Kitchen, Listening …

I gave my flat to my daughter and son-in-law. Now I sleep on a camp bed in the kitchen.

I lay on the creaky camp bed, listening to them laughing on the other side of the wall. The television was blaring, glasses clinkedtheyd opened another bottle of wine, most likely. And here I was, tucked away in the kitchen, surrounded by pots and the lingering smell of yesterdays stew.

I was afraid to turn over in bed. It was best not to make a sound. The last thing I wanted was for them to come in and tell me I was in the way. I tried my hardest not to be seen, tiptoeing out of the flat early every morning, spending my days outside, only returning late at night. By the evening, theyd always be in the lounge, and to get to the kitchen Id have to walk right through. It was always awkward.

Im sixty-four. I spent my working life as a teacher. I raised my daughter by myselfher father left when she was just a child. The council gave me this flat back in the day, and later I managed to buy it outright. Two rooms, a good area, not far from the Underground. My home. My whole life was tied up in those walls.

When my daughter married, she had nowhere to live. Renting was expensive, too cramped, and the neighbours were rowdy. She complained it wasnt the place for a child. So I made what felt like the right decision.

I gave them the flat.

It wasnt something I left in a will, or lent for a while. I gave it to them. A proper contract. With signatures. I believed thats what families do for each other. I thought: well live together, Ill help out, and be there for my future grandchildren.

It was all right at first. We ate together, we chatted. It felt almost like how a family should.

Then something changed. I didn’t even notice when.

One day, they told me they needed my room. It was going to be a study. Needed for working from home. And I would sleep, temporarily, in the kitchen.

That temporarily has now lasted four months.

I tried to talk about it. I told them my back ached, that it was cold, that I wasnt young anymore and it was getting too much. They always replied with the same thing: Just for a bit longer.

A bit longer dragged on. My old room filled with expensive new furniture, computers, an armchair. Meanwhile, at night, Id shift quietly, counting the squeaks of the bed every time I turned over.

I started to feel surplus to requirements. Not in my homein someone elses. A home that once belonged to me.

One evening, I overheard a conversation. They didnt see me. They spoke about me, about how I was in the way, about how it wasnt the plan for me to stay forever. About rent, about a place for the elderly.

Thats when I understood.

I raised a daughter. I gave everything I had. Now Id become the unwanted third.

I walked out. Wandered the streets with no destination. I was cold. I thought, and thought. I came home late and lay on my camp bed without a word.

The next day, I asked to talk. Really talk.

I said I didnt want much. Just a room. Just a bed. Just to not feel like a nuisance. Just to live like a person.

I reminded them Id given my home not to strangers, but to my own child. And not so I could end up sleeping between a cooker and a fridge.

And for the first time, they actually listened.

Things didnt magically fix themselves. There were awkward silences, and tension. But I got my room back. The camp bed disappeared. I slept in a real bed again. My back stopped hurting.

Thats when I learned something important.

Helping your children is an act of love.

Giving them everything, thoughmeans erasing yourself.

You mustnt give your entire life away, even to those you love most. Because if you have nothing left, its all too easy for others to see you as unnecessary.

What do you think? Should a parent sacrifice everything for their children, or is there a line where dignity must come first?