My husband and I went hungry so our children could have better lives, only to end up completely alone in our old age.
We spent our entire lives for our children—not for ourselves, not for personal success, but for them. Our three precious ones, whom we cherished, spoiled, and sacrificed everything for. Who would have thought that at the end of this journey, when our health and strength had faded, we’d be met with nothing but pain and emptiness instead of gratitude and care?
I’ve known William since we were children—we grew up in the same neighborhood, went to the same school. When I turned eighteen, we got married. It was a modest wedding; we hadn’t a penny to our names. A few months later, I found out I was pregnant. William dropped out of university and took on two jobs just to put food on the table.
We lived in poverty. Some days, we ate nothing but potatoes for three days straight, but we never complained. We knew why we were doing it. We dreamed that our children would never know want, never feel the deprivation we endured. When things stabilized slightly, I became pregnant again. It was frightening, but neither of us hesitated—of course we’d raise this child too. She was ours.
Back then, we had no help. No one to support us, no one to watch the little ones. My mother passed young, and his mother lived in another county, too wrapped up in herself. I spent my days between the kitchen and the nursery, while William worked himself to exhaustion, coming home late with tired eyes and hands cracked from the cold.
By thirty, I had our third. Hard? Absolutely. But we never expected life to be easy. We weren’t spoiled by fortune—we just kept moving forward. Step by step, through loans and grueling work, we managed to buy flats for two of them. Only God knows how many sleepless nights that cost us. The youngest wanted to study medicine abroad, so we took out another loan and told ourselves, *We’ll manage.*
The years flew by like a sped-up film. The children grew up, scattered. They had their own lives now, while ours became old age—not the slow, peaceful kind we’d hoped for, but sudden, marked by William’s failing health. 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.”*
Yet friends later told me they’d seen her at a café with her mates.
Our son blamed work, though that same day, he posted pictures from a beach in Spain.
The youngest—the one we’d sold nearly everything for, to give her that prestigious education—messaged that she couldn’t get away because of exams. That was it.
I spent nights at William’s bedside, spoon-feeding him, checking his temperature, holding his hand when the pain came. I didn’t expect miracles—I just wanted him to know someone still needed him. Because I did.
And in those moments, I realized—we were utterly alone. No support, no warmth, not even a basic show of concern. Yes, we’d given them everything. We went without so they could eat. Wore old clothes so they could have new ones. Never took holidays so they could travel.
Now we were a burden. And the cruelest part? It wasn’t even the betrayal. It was knowing we’d been erased. We’d mattered—until we stopped being useful. Now we were in the way. They were young, living their lives, with everything ahead. We were just relics of a past no one cared to remember.
Sometimes, I hear neighbors laughing in the hall—their grandchildren visiting. Sometimes, I spot a friend walking hand-in-hand with her daughter in the park. And my chest tightens. That will never be us. To our children, we’re just a footnote.
I’ve stopped calling. Stopped reminding them we exist. William and I live in our small, tidy flat. I cook his porridge, put on old films, sit beside him as he drifts off. Every night, I pray for just one thing—that he won’t suffer. That when his time comes, it’s gentle. He’s endured enough.
As for the children? I suppose they’re doing well. That’s what we worked for, after all. But then why does their success taste so bitter? Why is there nothing but this hollow chill inside?
We starved ourselves for their happiness. Now we swallow our tears in silence.
