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, we lived for the kids. Not for ourselves, not for success—just for them, our darling three, whom we cherished, spoiled, and sacrificed everything for. Who would have thought that at the end of the road, when health falters and strength fades, we’d be left with nothing but silence and heartache instead of gratitude and care?
John and I knew each other since childhood—grew up on the same street, sat in the same classroom. When I turned eighteen, we married. The wedding was modest; money was tight. A few months later, I found out I was pregnant. John dropped out of university and took on two jobs—anything to put food on the table.
We lived poorly. Sometimes we ate nothing but baked potatoes for days, but we never complained. We knew why we did it. We dreamed our children would never know the pinch of poverty we’d endured. And when things stabilised slightly, I got pregnant again. It was terrifying, but we didn’t hesitate—of course we’d raise this baby too. Blood’s thicker than water, after all.
We had no help back then. No one to babysit, no family to lean on. My mother had passed young, and John’s mum lived miles away, too wrapped up in her own world. I lived between the kitchen and the nursery, while John worked himself to the bone, coming home late with tired eyes and chapped hands from the cold. Family vacation packages
By thirty, I had our third. Hard? Absolutely. But we never expected life to be easy. We weren’t the sort to coast. We just kept plodding on. Through loans, through exhaustion, we somehow managed to buy flats for two of them. How many sleepless nights it cost us—only heaven knows. Our youngest dreamed of becoming a doctor, so we scraped together every penny and sent her abroad. We took out yet another loan and told ourselves, “We’ll manage.”
Years flew by like a sped-up film reel. The kids grew up, spread their wings. They had their own lives. And then, suddenly, old age hit—not gently, but like a freight train, with John’s diagnosis. He grew weaker, fading before my eyes. I cared for him alone. No calls, no visits.
When I rang our eldest, Sophie, begging her to come, she snapped, “I’ve got my own kids, my own life. I can’t just drop everything.” A friend later mentioned spotting her at a café with her mates.
Our son, James, blamed work—though that same day, he posted sun-soaked beach snaps from Ibiza. And our youngest, Emily—the one we’d sold half our belongings for, the one with the fancy European degree—just texted, “Can’t skip my exams, sorry.” That was that.
Nights were the worst. I’d sit by John’s bed, spoon-feeding him soup, checking his temperature, holding his hand when pain twisted his face. I didn’t expect miracles—just wanted him to know someone still needed him. Because I did.
That’s when it hit me: we were completely alone. No support, no warmth, not even a scrap of interest. We’d given everything—skipped meals so they could eat, worn threadbare clothes so they’d have the latest trends, never took a holiday so they could jet off somewhere sunny.
Now? Now we were a burden. And the cruelest part? It wasn’t even the betrayal. It was realising we’d been erased. We were useful once. Now we’re just… in the way. They’re young, they’re living, their futures bright. And us? We’re just relics of a past no one cares to remember.
Sometimes I overhear neighbours laughing in the hall—grandkids visiting. Sometimes I see my old friend Margaret arm-in-arm with her daughter in the park, and something inside me crumples. That’ll never be us. To our children, we’re just a footnote.
I’ve stopped calling. Stopped reminding them we exist. John and I live quietly in our little flat. I make his porridge, put on old films, sit by his side as he drifts off. Every night, I whisper the same prayer: just let him go gently. He’s suffered enough.
And the kids? Well… I suppose they’re fine. That’s what we wanted, isn’t it? Funny, though—why does “success” taste so bitter? Why does the silence ache this much?
We starved ourselves to give them everything. Now we swallow our tears in the quiet.
