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 am 65, and for the first time in my life, I’m faced with a bitter realization: could it be that our children, for whom my husband and I sacrificed everything, have tossed us aside like old, unwanted belongings? Our three children, to whom we gave our youth, energy, and every last penny, took everything they wanted from us and left without a backward glance. My son ignores my calls, and I find myself wondering if any of them will bring us a glass of water when we are truly old. This thought pierces my heart like a knife, leaving only emptiness behind.
I got married at 25 in a little town near Leeds. My husband, Robert, was my classmate, a stubborn romantic who pursued my attention for years. He enrolled at the same university to stay close to me. A year after our modest wedding, I got pregnant, and our first daughter was born. Robert quit his studies to work, and I took a break from university. Those were tough times—he worked on construction sites from dawn until late at night while I learned to be a mother and tried not to fail my exams. Two years later, I was pregnant again. I had to switch to part-time studies, and Robert took on more shifts to support us.
Despite all the challenges, we raised our two children—our eldest daughter, Sarah, and our son, John. When Sarah started school, I finally got a job in my field. Life began to improve: Robert found a stable job with a good salary, and we settled into our home. Just as we felt relief, I discovered I was expecting our third child. It was another blow. Robert worked even harder to support the family, and I stayed home with little Emma. How we managed, I still don’t understand, but step by step, we found solid ground again. When Emma started her first school year, I felt a sense of relief for the first time, as if a weight had been lifted from my shoulders.
But the trials didn’t end there. Sarah, just after starting college, announced she was getting married. We didn’t try to dissuade her—after all, we married young as well. The wedding, helping with housing—these drained our last savings. Then John wanted his own place. How could we say no? We took on debt to buy him a home. Luckily, he quickly landed a job at a large company, bringing some peace of mind. But Emma, in her final school year, stunned us with her dream of studying abroad. It was a heavy hit to our finances, but we scraped together the money and sent her across the sea. She left, and we found ourselves alone in the empty house.
Years went by, and the children appeared at our door less frequently. Sarah, though living nearby, visited once every six months, brushing off invitations. John sold his flat and bought a new one in London, visiting us even less often—perhaps once a year, if we were lucky. Emma finished her studies and stayed abroad, building her life there. We gave them everything—time, health, dreams—and in the end, we became invisible to them. We don’t expect money or help from them—heaven forbid. We just long for a little warmth: a call, a visit, a kind word. But even that is absent. The phone doesn’t ring, the door doesn’t open, and a chilling loneliness grows inside.
Now, I sit by the window watching the autumn rain, thinking: is this really it? Are we, who gave our every breath to our children, doomed to be forgotten? Perhaps it’s time to stop waiting for them to remember us and turn our focus inward. At 65, Robert and I stand at a crossroads. The future is uncertain, yet somewhere beyond the horizon lies a glimmer of hope for happiness—our own, not for anyone else. Our whole lives, we placed ourselves last, but don’t we deserve a drop 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 accept this emptiness and find light within it? What do you think?
