A Dream Unfulfilled: The Kids Have Grown, But Forgotten That Happiness Is Family
I’m sixty-one. My husband and I have been together for over forty years—through poverty, through plenty, through tears and laughter. We’ve seen it all. And now, in the twilight of our days, there’s just one thing we yearn for: grandchildren. To hear the pitter-patter of tiny feet, to see little ones who look like our son or daughter, to hold them close and pass on the warmth my mother’s heart longs to give. But it seems this dream will never come true…
Our son, Oliver, is thirty-five now. A brilliant man, lead programmer at a major international firm. He earns good money, bought a fancy flat in central London, and is saving up for his dream car. He helps us—emotionally and financially. We respect him. He’s our pride. But every time I bring up family, he brushes me off like a bothersome fly.
“Mum, I live for myself. I’ve no plans to marry or have kids,” he said once on his birthday, when I foolishly started dreaming aloud about grandchildren.
Honestly, I barely held back my tears. My vision blurred, something inside me snapped. My husband tried to comfort me—said things could still change. But I know they won’t. Oliver’s too deeply attached to his freedom and comfort.
And it’s not just him. Our daughter, Charlotte, has gone down the same path. Though she was always so nurturing growing up… We didn’t take her seriously at fifteen when she said, “I’ll never marry or have kids.” Typical teenager, we thought. Who listens to them?
Now Charlotte’s twenty-nine. Beautiful, clever, successful. She’s been with her boyfriend for four years, but no wedding bells. I’ve spoken to them both: “Maybe it’s time to make it official?” They just laughed.
“Mum, what century are you living in? No one needs a stamp in their passport anymore. We’re happy as we are.”
And when I gently brought up children, she cut me off sharp:
“Mum, I’ve got my career right now. Projects, meetings, business trips. I’m not about nappies and colic.”
I tried explaining—youth doesn’t last. A woman’s body is meant to have children before thirty. It gets harder after that, for her and the baby. But she wouldn’t listen. Said she doesn’t owe anyone conformity. That happiness isn’t in family, but in self-fulfilment.
It felt like a knife to my heart. I’m not just anyone. I’m her mother. I’m not her enemy. I don’t ask for much. I just want to play with grandchildren. Tell them stories I told my own children. Sew blankets. Bake apple pie. But they don’t even leave a chance. They don’t just not want kids—they don’t want family, marriage, the things we raised them to value.
Recently, Charlotte and I had a huge row. She came over for tea, and just before, my friend had called, boasting about becoming a grandma for the second time—her daughter’s only twenty-six. And mine… stays silent, like I’m a stranger.
I couldn’t hold back. Told her at her age, I already had two kids, that I pushed prams down the street and sang lullabies at night, that that was real happiness. She flared up, leaned back in her chair, and said coldly:
“Mum, it’s not fair to compare me to you. You had your life. I have mine. I don’t owe you grandchildren just so you feel needed.”
I cried then. She left without a goodbye. I sat there with a cold cup of tea and shaking hands. Wondering—did I go wrong somewhere? Was I too soft, didn’t push when I should’ve? Or did I push too hard? Where did I, their mother, fail them?
Now nearly all my friends dote on grandchildren, while I visit them, wipe away tears, force smiles through jealousy. Then return home to silence. No laughter, no toys scattered about, no little hands reaching for me, shouting, *”Grandma!”*
Oliver’s shut away in his flat, buried in screens and spreadsheets. Charlotte hides behind her laptop, pretending everything’s under control. And me? Broken-hearted, clinging to hope. Maybe there’s still time?
Maybe one day they’ll see… That money, careers, status—it’s all hollow. But a grandchild hugging your neck, whispering *”I love you”*—that’s forever. That stays in your soul when everything else is gone.
But time slips by. And I’m starting to fear my “grandma train” might never reach the station…
