At sixty-five, we finally understood our children no longer needed us. How does one come to terms with this and begin living for oneself?
I am sixty-five now, and for the first time in my life, I am faced with a bitter truth: have our children, for whom my husband and I sacrificed everything, cast us aside like old, unwanted things? Our three children, to whom we gave our youth, our strength, every last pennythey took all we had to offer and walked away without so much as a glance back. Our son wont answer when I call, and the thought gnaws at mewill none of them so much as hand us a glass of water when we are too frail to care for ourselves? The idea pierces my heart like a knife, leaving only emptiness behind.
I married at twenty-five in a quiet town near Manchester. My husband, Arthur, had been my classmate, a stubborn romantic who had spent years winning my affection. He even enrolled in the same university just to stay close. A year after our modest wedding, I fell pregnant. Our first daughter was born. Arthur left his studies to work, and I took leave from mine. Those were hard yearshe laboured from dawn till dusk at the docks, while I learned to be a mother, struggling not to fail my exams. Two years later, I was expecting again. I had to switch to correspondence courses, and Arthur took on extra shifts to keep us fed.
We endured, despite it all, and raised two childrenour eldest, Beatrice, and our son, Thomas. When Beatrice started school, I finally found work in my field. Life began to steady: Arthur secured a stable position with decent wages, and we made our flat a home. But just as we caught our breath, I discovered I was carrying our third. Another blow. Arthur worked himself to the bone to keep us afloat, while I stayed home with little Margaret. How we managed, I still dont know, but step by step, we found solid ground again. When Margaret began school, I felt the weight lift at lastlike a mountain slipping from my shoulders.
Yet the trials were not over. Beatrice, scarcely enrolled at university, announced she was marrying. We didnt objectwed wed young ourselves. The wedding, helping with a flatit drained our last savings. Then Thomas wanted his own place. How could we refuse our son? We took a loan, bought him a home. Thankfully, he found work with a respectable firm soon after, and we breathed easier. But Margaret, in her final year of school, stunned us with dreams of studying abroad. It was a heavy blow to our coffers, but we clenched our teeth, scraped together the money, and sent her across the sea. She flew away, and we were left alone in a silent house.
As the years passed, the children came by less and less. Beatrice, though she lived nearby, visited perhaps twice a year, always brushing off invitations. Thomas sold his flat, bought another in London, and came home even more rarelyonce a year, if we were fortunate. Margaret, after finishing her studies, stayed abroad to build her life there. We gave them everythingour time, our health, our dreamsand in the end, we became nothing to them. We dont ask for money or helpheaven forbid. All we want is a scrap of warmth: a call, a visit, a kind word. But even that is denied. The phone stays silent, the door unopened, while a cold loneliness grows in my chest.
Now I sit, watching the autumn rain through the window, and wonderis this all there is? Have we, who gave every breath to our children, been doomed to be forgotten? Perhaps its time to stop waiting for them to remember us and turn instead to ourselves. At sixty-five, Arthur and I stand at a crossroads. Ahead lies the unknown, but somewhere beyond the horizon, a flicker of hope remainsfor happiness, our own, no one elses. Weve spent our lives putting ourselves last, but havent we earned just a drop of joy for ourselves? I want to believe we have. I want to learn to live again, just for us, while our hearts still beat. How does one accept this emptiness and find light within it? What do you think?
