At 65, we realized our children no longer needed us. How can we come to terms with this and start living for ourselves?
I’m 65, and for the first time in my life, I’m faced with a painful question: have our children, for whom my husband and I sacrificed everything, discarded us like old, unwanted things? We poured our youth, energy, and every last penny into our three children, and now they’re gone without even a backward glance. My son doesn’t answer when I call, and I can’t help but wonder: will any of them be there to help us when we’re truly old? This thought pierces my heart like a knife, leaving only emptiness.
I married at 25 in a small town near London. My husband, James, was my schoolmate, a persistent romantic who pursued my attention for years. He enrolled in the same university to stay close to me. A year after our modest wedding, I got pregnant. Our first daughter was born. James left his studies to work, while I took a break from school. Those were tough days—he was on construction sites from dawn till dusk, while I learned to be a mother and tried to keep up with my studies. Two years later, I was pregnant again. I switched to distance learning, and James took on even more shifts to support us.
Despite the difficulties, we raised two children—our eldest daughter, Emily, and our son, William. When Emily started school, I finally got a job related to my degree. Life began to improve: James found a stable job with a good salary, and we settled into our home. But just as we took a breath, I discovered I was expecting our third child. It was another blow. James worked even harder to support us, and I stayed home with little Olivia. Somehow, we managed to regain solid footing, and when Olivia started school, I felt relief, as if a weight had been lifted off my shoulders.
Yet the challenges weren’t over. Emily, just into university, announced her engagement. We didn’t try to dissuade her—we had married young too. The wedding and helping with her housing drained our last savings. Then William wanted his own place. How could we refuse him? We took out a loan and bought a flat. Thankfully, he quickly found a job with a big company, and we could breathe easier. But then Olivia, in her final school year, surprised us with the dream of studying abroad. It was a heavy blow financially, but we scraped together the money and sent her overseas. She left, and we were left in an empty house.
As the years passed, our children visited less frequently. Even though Emily lived in our city, she would stop by only once every six months, declining our invitations. William sold his flat, bought a new one in Birmingham, and visited even less—once a year if we were lucky. Olivia, after finishing her studies, stayed abroad to build her life. We gave them everything—our time, health, dreams—and ended up as nothing to them. We don’t expect money or help—heaven forbid. We only want a bit of warmth: a call, a visit, a kind word. But there’s none of that. The phone stays silent, the door unopened, and loneliness grows within.
Now, as I sit staring out at the autumn rain, I wonder: is this all there is? Have we, who gave our children every breath, been consigned to oblivion? Perhaps it’s time to stop waiting for them to remember us and turn our focus inward? At 65, James and I find ourselves at a crossroads. Ahead lies uncertainty, but somewhere beyond, hope for happiness glimmers—our own, not someone else’s. We’ve always put ourselves last, but don’t we deserve a bit of joy for ourselves? I want to believe we do. I want to learn to live anew, for just the two of us, while our hearts still beat. How can we accept this emptiness and find light within it? What do you think?
