At 65, we realized that our children no longer needed us. How do we come to terms with this and start living for ourselves?
I’m 65, and for the first time in my life, I’m facing the bitter question: have our children, for whom my husband and I sacrificed everything, cast us aside like old, unwanted items? Our three children, to whom we gave our youth, energy, and every last penny, took all they wanted from us and moved on without looking back. My son doesn’t pick up when I call, and I find myself wondering if any of them would so much as bring us a glass of water in our old age. This thought pierces my heart like a dagger, leaving only emptiness.
I got married at 25, in a small town near Cambridge. My husband, Steven, was my classmate, a stubborn romantic who pursued me for years. He enrolled at the same university to be close to me. A year after our modest wedding, I got pregnant, and our first daughter was born. Steven dropped out to work, and I took a break from my studies. Those were tough times—he was on construction sites from dawn till dusk, while I learned to be a mother, trying not to fail my exams. Two years later, I was expecting again. I had to switch to distance learning, and Steven took on more shifts to support us.
We held on through the difficulties and raised two children—our eldest daughter, Lucy, and our son, Anthony. When Lucy started school, I finally got a job in my field. Life began to improve: Steven found a stable job with a good salary, allowing us to furnish our home. But just as we began to relax, I found out I was expecting our third. It was a fresh blow. Steven worked even harder to keep us afloat, and I stayed at home with our little daughter, Nadia. How we managed, I still don’t know, but step by step, we regained our footing. When Nadia started school, I felt relief for the first time, as if a weight had lifted off my shoulders.
But the challenges weren’t over. Lucy, barely into university, announced she was getting married. We didn’t dissuade her—we had married young ourselves. The wedding and helping with her housing drained our last savings. Then Anthony needed his own place. How could we deny our son? We took out a loan and bought him an apartment. Thankfully, he quickly landed a job with a major company, and we breathed easier. Yet Nadia, in her final year of school, surprised us by announcing her dream to study abroad. It was a heavy hit to our finances, but we scraped the money together, gritted our teeth, and sent her overseas. She left, and we found ourselves alone in an empty house.
As the years passed, our children visited less frequently. Lucy, though living in our city, would stop by once every six months, brushing off invitations. Anthony sold his flat, bought another in London, and visited even less—once a year, if we were lucky. Nadia, having finished her studies, settled abroad, building her life there. We gave them everything—our time, health, and dreams—yet ended up as empty spaces in their lives. We don’t expect money or help from them—God forbid. We just long for a sliver of warmth: a call, a visit, a kind word. But even that is absent. The phone remains silent, the door doesn’t open, and a cold loneliness grows inside.
Now, I sit, watching the autumn rain from the window, pondering: is this it? Are we, who gave every breath to our children, destined for oblivion? Perhaps it is time to stop waiting for them to remember us, and to turn our focus inward? At 65, Steven and I stand at a crossroads. Ahead lies the unknown, but somewhere beyond the horizon glimmers the hope of happiness—ours, not someone else’s. We’ve always put ourselves last, but don’t we deserve a touch of joy for ourselves? I want to believe we do. I want to learn to live anew, for the two of us, while our hearts still beat. How do we embrace this emptiness and find light within it? What do you think?
