I raised three sons, and now in my twilight years, they have no need for me…
I brought five children into this world, dedicating my life to them without a second thought for my own desires or health. This was thirty years ago in a small village near York, where each day was a battle for their happiness. Now, my sons and daughters are scattered across the globe, have families of their own, and I’m left alone, staring into the emptiness they left behind.
With my daughters, the bond is unbreakable. They visit often, bringing treats, helping around the house, filling it with laughter and warmth. We celebrate every holiday together—they know how deeply loneliness eats at me, how the silence is suffocating. I have a large house with room for everyone, and I always greet them with open arms. But my sons… It’s as if they’re strangers. As if I’m just a shadow from their past. I understand they have wives, children, responsibilities. But how can you so easily forget the one who gave you life?
When my husband, John, called them to ask for help fixing the roof, they brushed him off like some annoying fly. Rainwater was leaking in, and we had to spend the last of our pension on strangers to save our home. Our sons never even asked how we managed. They don’t call, they don’t write. Even on a birthday when you hope for a word, a drop of respect, there’s nothing but silence from them.
I don’t blame their wives; it seems like the sons chose to forget about us on their own, to discard us like unnecessary baggage. I’ve observed my daughters-in-law—they seem like kind, sensible women. But my sons are always citing work, obligations, perpetual busyness. Do my daughters not work? Do they not have families? Why do they find time to come, embrace, bring groceries, while my sons and their wives don’t even bring the grandchildren to brighten our days?
Right now, John and I need help more than ever. Our health is failing, much like an old house in a storm, and our sons have turned away as though we were dead to them. Our daughters and sons-in-law take us to doctors, pay for medicines out of their own pockets, bring us food, and soothe our souls with their care. But the boys I raised, fed from a spoon, taught how to live—they’ve left us to fend for ourselves.
Two years ago, my middle daughter, Lucy, had a terrible accident. She’s now in a wheelchair and instead of helping us, she needs care herself. My eldest, Mary, moved to Canada last year for a better life—it’s understandable, but she’s far away, and I’m without her support. She suggested hiring a caregiver, but I refused, nearly in tears from the hurt. Did I bear five children only to have a stranger wipe my tears and make my soup in my old age? Is this the reward for all my sacrifices?
One daughter-in-law, the youngest son’s wife, once suggested we sell the house and move into a care home. “They’ll feed you, look after you, and no one will mind,” she said with a cold smile, as though we were talking about old furniture, not living people. How could she say such a thing? I was almost choked with indignation. Yes, we’re old, but we’re not helpless! We can walk, think, live—just not as we used to, and health fails a bit more every day. We don’t ask for much—just a crumb of attention, a bit of warmth from those we raised with love.
Once again, I am reminded that nothing is closer than my daughters. They are my support, my angels preventing me from falling into the abyss of loneliness. As for my sons… Let God judge them. I gave them everything—my health, my youth, countless sleepless nights, and in return, I received only emptiness and indifference. Did I really deserve to be forgotten in my old age by those I once lived for?
