A Dream Unfulfilled: The Children Have Grown, Yet Forgotten That Happiness Lies in Family
I’m sixty-one. My husband and I have spent over forty years together—through poverty, through plenty, through tears and laughter. We’ve seen it all. And now, in the twilight of our days, we have just one cherished wish—to hold our grandchildren. To hear the pitter-patter of tiny feet, to see a little one who resembles our son or daughter, to wrap them in warmth and pass on the love my mother’s heart aches to give. But it seems this dream will remain just that—a dream.
Our son, James, is thirty-five now. A brilliant man, lead programmer at a major international firm. He earns well, bought a lavish flat in central London, and is saving for his dream car. He supports us—emotionally and financially. We respect him. He’s our pride. But every time I broach the subject of family, he brushes me off like a bothersome fly.
“Mum, I live for myself. I’ve no plans to marry or have children,” he said once on his birthday, when I, foolishly, dared to voice my hopes for grandchildren aloud.
Truth be told, I barely held back tears. My vision darkened; something inside me snapped. My husband tried to comfort me—saying things could still change. But I know better. James clings too tightly to his freedom and comfort.
And it’s not just him. Our daughter, Emily, has followed the same path. Though she was always such a homemaker growing up, so caring… Back when she was fifteen, we dismissed her words—”I’ll never marry or have kids.” Just a teenager, we thought, a phase. Who takes such declarations seriously at that age?
Now Emily’s twenty-nine. Beautiful, clever, successful. She’s been with her boyfriend for four years, yet no wedding in sight. I’ve spoken to them both: “Maybe it’s time to make it official?” They only laughed.
“Mum, what century are you living in? A stamp in a passport means nothing these days. We’re happy as we are.”
When I cautiously mentioned children, she cut me off sharply:
“Mum, I’ve got my career now—projects, meetings, business trips. I’ve no time for nappies and colic.”
I tried explaining that youth doesn’t last forever. That a woman’s body isn’t kind after thirty. That it gets harder—for her, for the baby. But she wouldn’t listen. Said she owed no one conformity. That happiness wasn’t in family, but in self-fulfilment.
It was like a knife to my heart. I’m not a stranger. I’m her mother. I’m not her enemy. I don’t ask for much. I just want to play with grandchildren. To tell them the same stories I told my children. To stitch tiny blankets. To bake apple pie. But they leave me no chance. They don’t just refuse children—they reject family, marriage, everything we raised them to value.
Recently, Emily and I had a fierce row. She came over for tea, and just before, a friend had called, boasting about becoming a grandmother for the second time—her daughter only twenty-six, already with two little ones. And mine… silent, as if I were nothing to her.
I couldn’t hold back. Told her that at her age, I already had two children, that I’d pushed prams down the street and sung lullabies at night—that this was true happiness. She flared up, leaned back in her chair, and said coldly:
“Mum, don’t you dare compare me to you. You had your life. I have mine. I won’t have kids just to make you feel needed.”
I wept. She left without a goodbye. I sat there with a cold cup of tea and trembling hands, wondering: Where did I go wrong? Was I too soft? Or did I push too hard? Where, as a mother, did I lose them?
Now nearly all my friends dote on grandchildren, while I visit them, wiping away tears, forcing smiles through envy. And I return home to silence. No childish laughter, no toys strewn about, no tiny hands reaching for me with cries of “Grandma!”
James locks himself away in his flat, buried in screens and spreadsheets. Emily hides behind her laptop, pretending she has it all under control. And here I am—heartbroken, yet clinging to hope. Maybe it’s not too late?
Maybe one day they’ll understand… That money, careers, status—none of it lasts. But a grandchild who hugs your neck and whispers “I love you”—that’s forever. That stays in your soul long after everything else fades.
But time slips away. And I’m beginning to fear my train—marked “Grandmother”—will never reach the station…
