My husband and I starved ourselves so our children could have better lives. And in our old age, we found ourselves completely alone.
We spent our entire lives living for our children—not for ourselves, not for success, but for them. Our beloved three, whom we cherished, nurtured, and sacrificed everything for. Who would have thought that at the end of this road, when our health is failing and our strength is gone, we’d be left with nothing but pain and emptiness instead of gratitude and care?
John and I had known each other since childhood—we grew up on the same street, went to the same school. When I turned eighteen, we married. The wedding was small; we hardly had a penny to our name. A few months later, I found out I was expecting. John dropped out of university to take on two jobs just to keep food on the table.
We lived in poverty. Some days, we ate nothing but potatoes for three meals straight, but we never complained. We knew what we were doing it for. We dreamed that our children would never know hardship the way we had. When things stabilised a little, I fell pregnant again. It was terrifying, but we never hesitated—of course we’d raise this child too. It was ours.
We had no help. No one came to babysit, no family to lean on. My mother had died young, and John’s mother lived in another county, too caught up in her own life. I spent my days between the kitchen and the nursery, while John worked late into the night, coming home exhausted, his hands raw from the cold.
By thirty, I had our third. Was it hard? Of course. But we never expected life to be easy. We weren’t the kind to be spoiled by fortune—we just kept moving forward. Step by step, through loans and backbreaking work, we managed to buy flats for two of our children. Only God knows how many sleepless nights that cost us. And the youngest—she dreamed of becoming a doctor, so we took out another loan to send her abroad. “We’ll manage,” we told ourselves.
The years flew by like a film on fast-forward. The children grew up, moved away. They had their own lives. And then, suddenly, old age caught up with us—not gently, but sharply, with John falling ill. He grew weaker by the day. I cared for him alone. No calls, no visits.
When I rang our eldest, asking her to come, she snapped:
“I’ve got my own kids, my own life. I can’t just drop everything.”
But a friend later told me they’d seen her at a café with her mates.
Our son blamed work—though that same day, he posted pictures of himself on a beach in Spain.
And the youngest—the one we’d sold nearly everything for, so she could have that prestigious education—said she was too busy with her exams. That was that.
Night after night, I sat by John’s side, spoon-feeding him, checking his temperature, holding his hand when the pain got bad. I didn’t expect miracles—I just wanted him to know someone still needed him. Because I did.
And in those moments, I understood—we were alone. Completely. No support, no warmth, not even a shred of concern. Yes, we gave our children everything. We went hungry so they could eat. We wore threadbare clothes so they could have the best. We never took a holiday so they could travel.
And now, we were a burden. The cruelest part wasn’t even the betrayal—it was realising we’d been erased. We were useful only as long as we served a purpose. Now, we were just in the way. They’re young, they’re living, they’ve got their whole lives ahead. And we? We’re left with a past no one cares about.
Sometimes, I hear neighbours laughing in the hallway—grandchildren visiting. Sometimes, I see an old friend walking arm-in-arm with her daughter, and something inside me twists. That’ll never be us. To our children, we’re just a story now.
I’ve stopped calling. I’ve stopped reminding them we exist. John and I live in a small, tidy flat. I make his porridge, put on old films, sit with him until he falls asleep. And every night, I pray for just one thing—that he doesn’t suffer. That when his time comes, it’s gentle. Because he’s had enough pain.
And the children? Well, I suppose they’re doing fine. That’s what we worked for, isn’t it? So why does “success” taste so bitter? Why does it feel so hollow?
We starved ourselves for their happiness. And now, we swallow our tears in silence.
