I gave birth to three sons and found that they wanted nothing to do with me in my later years…
I raised five children, giving them everything I had, never sparing my strength or health, disregarding my own desires. This was thirty years ago, in a small village near London, where each day was a struggle to ensure their happiness. Now my sons and daughters have spread across the world, building their own families, and I am left alone, staring into the void they’ve left behind.
My connection with my daughters is as strong as steel. They visit me, bring gifts, help with household chores, and fill my home with warmth and laughter. We celebrate every holiday together—they understand how lonely I feel, how much the silence weighs on me. My house is large, with plenty of room for everyone, and I always await them with open arms. But my sons… They’re like strangers. It’s as if I’m not their mother, just a shadow from the past. I understand they have their own wives, children, and responsibilities. But how can they so easily erase the one who gave them life?
When my husband, John, called them to ask for help fixing the roof, they brushed him off like an annoying fly. Rain was pouring into the house, water dripping onto the floor, and we spent the last bit of our pension hiring strangers to save our nest. The sons didn’t even ask how we managed. They don’t call or write. Even on my birthday, when I hoped for a word, any sign of respect, there was only silence.
I don’t believe their wives are turning them against us. It seems they’ve chosen to forget us, to shrug us off like some unwanted burden. I’ve observed my daughters-in-law—they appear to be kind, sensible women. But my sons always have excuses: work, commitments, endless busyness. Don’t my daughters work? Don’t they have families? Yet they find time to visit, hug me, bring groceries, while my sons and their wives won’t even show us the grandkids’ faces or let us hear their joyous voices.
Now, more than ever, John and I need help. Our health is failing like an old house in a storm, and our sons have turned away as if we no longer exist. My daughters and their husbands take us to doctors, cover the cost of medicine from their own pockets, and bring us food, warming our hearts with their care. But those boys I raised, fed from my own hand, taught to live—they’ve left us to fend for ourselves.
Two years ago, my middle daughter, Lily, was in a terrible accident. She’s now confined to a wheelchair, and instead of supporting us, she needs care herself. My eldest, Sarah, moved to Canada last year for better prospects—I understand her decision, but she’s far away, and I’m without her support. She suggested hiring a nurse, but I refused, nearly crying from the hurt. Did I have five children just so a stranger would dry my tears and cook me soup in my twilight years? Is this the reward for all my sacrifices?
One of the daughters-in-law, my youngest son’s wife, once suggested that we sell the house and move into a retirement home. “They’ll feed you there, look after you, and nobody will mind,” she said with a cold smile, as though she was talking about old furniture, not living people. How could she utter such words? I nearly choked on my indignation. Yes, we’re old, but not helpless! We walk, we think, we live—though our strength is waning and our health fails us each day. We don’t ask for much—just a bit of attention, some warmth from those we raised with love.
Time and again, I realize: there is no one closer than daughters. They are my support, my angels, preventing me from falling into the abyss of loneliness. But as for my sons… Let God judge them. I gave them everything—health, youth, sleepless nights—and in return, I’ve received only emptiness and indifference. Did I truly deserve to be forgotten by those for whom I lived my life?
