**Diary Entry 3rd October**
At sixty-five, Ive been forced to face a bitter truth: our children no longer need us. After decades of sacrifice, my husband and I have been cast aside like old furniture. Three childrenraised on our youth, our energy, every last pound we could sparetook all we had and left without a backward glance. My son wont even pick up the phone when I ring. It cuts deep, this thought: will not one of them spare us a glass of water in our final years? The emptiness it leaves is sharper than any blade.
I married at twenty-five in a quiet village near York. My husband, James, had been my schoolmatea stubborn romantic who spent years winning me over. He even followed me to university just to stay close. A year after our modest wedding, I fell pregnant. Our first daughter arrived, and James dropped out to work construction while I took leave from my studies. Those were hard yearshed labour from dawn till dusk, and I juggled motherhood with exams. Two years later, another pregnancy forced me to switch to remote learning while James took on extra shifts to keep us afloat.
Somehow, we survived. We raised two childrenour eldest, Eleanor, and our son, William. When Eleanor started school, I finally landed a job in my field. Life steadied: James secured a stable position, we made our flat a home. Just as we caught our breath, I discovered I was expecting again. Another blow. James worked himself ragged to provide, and I stayed home with our youngest, Margaret. How we managed, Ill never know, but step by step, we found our footing. When Margaret started Year One, it felt like a weight had lifted.
But the trials werent over. Eleanor, barely at university, announced her engagement. We didnt objectwed married young ourselves. The wedding, the flat depositit drained our savings dry. Then William wanted his own place. How could we say no? We took a loan, bought him a flat. Thankfully, he landed a good job soon after, easing the strain. But Margaret, in her final year at school, dropped a bombshell: she dreamed of studying abroad. It broke us financially, but we clenched our teeth, scraped together the funds, and sent her off. She flew away, leaving us alone in a silent house.
As years passed, visits grew scarce. Eleanor, though she lived nearby, came round twice a year at most, always brushing off invitations. William sold his flat, moved to London, and visited even lessonce a year, if we were lucky. Margaret, degree in hand, stayed abroad to build her life. We gave them everythingtime, health, dreamsand in return, we became ghosts. We dont want their money or choresGod forbid. Just a scrap of warmth: a call, a visit, a kind word. But even thats too much to ask. The phone stays silent, the door unopened, and the cold loneliness grows.
Now I sit by the window, watching the autumn rain, and wonder: is this it? Are we, who breathed for our children, doomed to be forgotten? Perhaps its time to stop waiting for them to remember us and turn instead to ourselves. At sixty-five, James and I stand at a crossroads. Ahead lies the unknown, but somewhere beyond the horizon, theres a flicker of hopefor our happiness, not theirs. Weve spent a lifetime putting ourselves last. Dont we deserve even a drop of joy now? I want to believe we do. I want to learn how to live again, just for us, while our hearts still beat. How does one make peace with such emptiness and find light within it? Thats the question.
*Lesson learned: Children may outgrow needing you, but you must never outgrow needing yourself.*
