**Diary Entry – 12th June**
The children accuse me of not buying them each a flat! Money is always tight… Am I really such a terrible father?
Hello, kind souls.
I, Arthur Whitmore, have finally mustered the courage to pour out my grief and ask for your advice. I’m over seventy now, spent my whole life trying to be a good man, a decent father—yet here I sit, wondering if I’ve gone wrong somewhere. My own flesh and blood, my children, won’t let me be. They shower me with blame, and I don’t know how to bear it.
Not long ago, we had a small family gathering at our old house near York. I’d hoped for a quiet evening, reminiscing over the past. But then my son, Oliver, showed up—already half-cut, his eyes glazed. He started picking at everyone—his sister, her husband. As his father, I gently tried to reason with him, told him such behaviour wasn’t right. And what do you think? He exploded! Shouted at me to stop meddling, claiming I’d ruined his life. “Other parents buy their kids houses—what have you ever given me?” he slurred, swaying on his feet.
I was stunned. Then my daughter, Charlotte, instead of defending me, echoed his words. “Yes, Dad, because of you, Ollie and I are still stuck renting! You could’ve at least helped with a deposit, but no…” I stood there, staring at them, hardly believing my ears.
The truth is, my late wife and I—God rest her soul—worked our fingers to the bone. We were schoolteachers—I taught maths, she taught English. Lived in a modest town near York, loved our work fiercely. We belonged to a generation that valued hard graft, respected elders, knew the worth of every crumb. Never took what wasn’t ours, but never went without, either. There was always food on the table, clothes on our backs. We raised our children, gave them an education. Oliver dropped out of uni—couldn’t be bothered—and Charlotte finished but never pursued her degree. Was it laziness, or had life beaten it out of her?
Where did I go wrong?
Perhaps we failed to pass on what we held dear. I’d dreamt of a quiet old age—rocking on the porch, bouncing grandchildren on my knee. Instead? Oliver’s already divorced, drinks too much, won’t even entertain the idea of children. Charlotte has twins, but they’re glued to their screens. Once, I dared to say children ought to play outside, to know the world beyond a tablet. She snapped: “Dad, leave it. Times have changed.” How am I meant to reach them?
The bitterest pill? Their ingratitude. They don’t see all we sacrificed! Flats? On a teacher’s salary? We scraped by on pensions now. Even as an old man, I squirrel away pennies—birthday gifts, sweets for the grandkids. Yet they throw it in my face, claim I ruined their lives, that they’ve got nothing because of me.
Money—it’s always money.
How could I possibly buy them properties? I’m alone now, my pension barely covers bread and butter. Yet they demand as if I’m made of money! Oliver’s always in debt, drinks his wages, while Charlotte and her husband moan that rent swallows their income. I tried reasoning with him: “Ollie, your mother and I raised you through harder times—we made do. Why can’t you?” He just waved me off. “You don’t get it, Dad.”
It breaks my heart. Am I to blame for not being wealthy? Does all I gave—love, care, an honest name—mean nothing? The grandkids are growing up strangers to me; they barely glance up from their gadgets. Charlotte brought them round once, and when I suggested a walk by the river or blackberry picking, they groaned, “Grandad, leave us alone.” Even she scolded me for not “understanding.”
Tell me, good people—am I the mad one? Have times truly changed so much that children expect wealth, not warmth? I always believed family was everything, yet now I feel like an outsider among my own. Did I fail them? Or has the world turned upside down, where a father’s love counts for nothing without a fortune behind it?
I’d be grateful for any wisdom. I need to know—where does the truth lie, and where does my fault begin? How do I carry this weight any longer?