I raised three sons, yet now, in my twilight years, they seem to have forgotten me…
I gave life to five children, dedicating my entire being to them without sparing any effort or concern for my own desires. This was three decades ago in a small village near Manchester, where each day was a struggle to ensure their happiness. Today, my sons and daughters have flown across the world, creating their own families, leaving me alone, staring at the void they left behind.
My bond with my daughters is strong and steadfast. They visit, bring treats, help with the house, filling my home with warmth and laughter. We celebrate all the holidays together; they understand how deeply I miss companionship and how silence oppresses me. My home is spacious, welcoming, and I always eagerly await them with open arms. But my sons… they appear distant, as if I were not their mother but a mere shadow from their past. I realize they have their own wives, children, and responsibilities. But how can they so easily dismiss the one who gave them life?
When my husband, John, reached out to them, asking for help to fix the leaking roof, they brushed it off like an annoying fly. Rain drenched our floors, and we spent the last of our meager pensions on hired workers to save our home. The sons didn’t even bother to check how we managed. They neither call nor write. Even on my birthday, when one hopes for at least a word, a hint of respect for age, there’s only dead silence from them.
I doubt their wives turn them against us. It seems more like they’ve chosen to forget their elderly parents and distance themselves, seeing us as a burdensome relic. I’ve watched my daughters-in-law — all three seem kind and sensible. Yet, my sons constantly attribute their absence to work, duties, eternal busyness. And what about my daughters? Don’t they work? Don’t they have families? Yet, they find time to visit, to hold me, to bring groceries, while my sons and their wives don’t even let me delight in my grandchildren’s joyous voices.
Now, John and I need assistance more than ever. Our health is failing, like an old house battered by the wind, and my sons have turned away as if we are no longer alive to them. My daughters and their husbands take us to appointments, pay for our medication from their own pockets, and bring food, warming my soul with their care. But the boys I raised, fed with a spoon, taught about life — they’ve abandoned us to fate.
Two years ago, my middle daughter, Lily, suffered a terrible accident. Now she’s confined to a wheelchair, needing care herself instead of helping us. The eldest, Jane, moved to Canada last year seeking a better life — understandable, but she’s far away, leaving me without her support. She suggested hiring a caregiver, but I refused, nearly moved to tears by the thought. Did I raise five children just to end up with a stranger wiping my tears and cooking my meals? Is this truly the reward for all my sacrifices?
Once, the youngest son’s wife suggested we sell the house and move into a care home. “They’ll feed and look after you there, and no one will hold any grudge,” she said with a chilly smile, as if we were old furniture and not living people. How could she bring herself to say it? I was breathless with indignation. Yes, we’re old, but not helpless! We still walk, think, live—just with dwindling strength and health every day. We don’t ask for much—just a crumb of attention, a touch of warmth from those we nurtured with love.
Once again, I’ve realized: no one is closer than my daughters. They are my support, my angels preventing me from falling into the abyss of loneliness. As for my sons… perhaps God will judge them. I gave them everything—my health, my youth, sleepless nights, only to receive nothing but emptiness and indifference in return. Did I truly deserve to be forgotten by those for whom I lived?
