07/06/2025
My husband and I went without so our children could have more. And in our old age, we found ourselves utterly alone.
All our lives, everything we did revolved around our children. Not once did we put ourselves first—not for ambition, not for comfort—only for them. Our precious three. We loved them fiercely, gave up everything, and asked for nothing in return. Who could have imagined that, at the twilight of life—when our bodies grew frail and our hearts longed for care—we’d be met not with love, but with loneliness?
Jason and I were childhood friends. We grew up side by side—same neighborhood, same school benches. When I turned eighteen, we tied the knot. It was a small wedding; we didn’t have much. A few months in, I found out I was expecting. Jason left university, juggling two jobs just to keep food on the table.
Times were tough. Some weeks, we survived on nothing but baked potatoes. But we never complained. It was all part of the plan—to make sure our kids would never have to live that way. When things began to settle, we found out I was pregnant again. We were scared, of course—but we never questioned keeping the baby. They were ours, and that was enough.
Back then, help was nonexistent. No one to lend a hand. My mother had passed early, and Jason’s mother lived too far and kept her distance. I lived in the kitchen and nursery, while Jason came home each night drained from hard labor, hands cracked from cold and exhaustion.
By the time I hit thirty, we had three children. Was it hard? Absolutely. But we never expected ease—we weren’t quitters. We trudged on, somehow scraping together enough to buy apartments for two of them. The sleepless nights, the unpaid bills, the sacrifices—we bore it all without question. Our youngest wanted to be a doctor, so we took out more loans, selling off what we could to fund her studies overseas. “We’ll find a way,” we kept saying.
Time slipped through our fingers like sand. The kids grew up, moved out, built lives of their own. And just when we needed them the most—when age crept in and illness knocked at our door—it all crumbled. John was diagnosed. His strength ebbed day by day. I looked after him alone. No phone calls. No visits.
When I phoned our eldest, Sophie, pleading for help, she snapped: “I’ve got my own family. I can’t just drop everything.” A friend later said she saw Sophie at a café, laughing with friends.
Our son, James, blamed his job—but Instagram told a different story: cocktails on a beach in Ibiza. And Emily… our youngest, the one we bent over backward for? She sent a short text: “Exams coming up. Can’t make it.”
And that was that.
The nights were unbearable. I sat beside John, feeding him by hand, wiping his brow, holding him close when the pain became too much. I didn’t hope for miracles—just wanted him to feel loved. Because I still needed him, even if no one else did.
That’s when reality struck: we were truly alone. No one checking in. No messages. No comfort. We had given up food so they’d eat, worn the same clothes for years so they’d wear the best. We never saw the world—so they could travel it.
And now? We’re seen as burdens. The real pain wasn’t even their absence. It was knowing we were forgotten. Once needed. Now discarded. Their futures shine bright, while ours fade in silence.
Sometimes I hear laughter from the hallway—other people’s grandchildren visiting. Sometimes I see Margaret, my old friend, walking with her daughter, arm in arm…
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