At 65, we’ve come to realize that our children no longer need us. How do we accept this and start living for ourselves?
I’m 65, and for the first time, I’m faced with the painful question: have our children, for whom my husband and I sacrificed everything, discarded us like old, unwanted items? We gave our youth, energy, every penny to our three children, and they left without a backward glance. My son doesn’t answer when I call, and I’m left wondering, will any of them even bring us a glass of water when we’re too old to care for ourselves? This thought pierces like a knife and leaves only emptiness.
I married at 25, in a small town outside London. My husband, David, was my school friend, a stubborn romantic who persistently sought my attention. He joined the same university to stay close. A year after our modest wedding, I was pregnant. Our first daughter was born. David quit school to work, while I took a break from my studies. Those were tough times—he worked on construction sites all day, while I learned to be a mother, trying not to fail my exams. Two years later, I was pregnant again. I switched to part-time studies, while David took on more shifts to support us.
We made it through despite the challenges and raised two children—our eldest daughter, Sarah, and our son, James. Once Sarah started school, I finally got a job in my field. Life began to stabilize: David found steady work with a good salary, and we settled into our apartment. But just as we caught our breath, I learned I was expecting again. It was another challenge. David worked even harder to support our family, while I stayed home with the baby, Emily. How we managed, I still don’t know, but step by step, we regained solid ground. When Emily started school, I felt relief for the first time—like a weight lifted from my shoulders.
But the tests didn’t end. Sarah, barely enrolled in university, announced her plans to marry. We didn’t argue—after all, we married young ourselves. The wedding and helping her with a home depleted our savings. Then James wanted his own flat. How could we refuse? We took a loan and bought him a place. Fortunately, he quickly found a job with a large firm, which eased our minds. But then Emily, in her final year of school, surprised us by wanting to study abroad. It was a heavy blow financially, but we scraped together the money and sent her overseas. She flew away, and we were left alone in an empty house.
Over the years, our children grew less frequent in their visits. Sarah, though living nearby, stopped by about twice a year, brushing off invitations. James sold his flat, bought one in London, and his visits dwindled to once a year, if that. Emily, after completing her education, decided to stay abroad to build her life there. We gave them everything—our time, health, dreams—and ended up as phantoms to them. We don’t ask for money or help—God forbid. We just crave a little warmth: a call, a visit, a kind word. But there’s none of that. The phone is silent, the door unopened, and a cold loneliness grows inside.
Now I’m sitting, watching the autumn rain, pondering: is this really it? Are we, who gave our children every breath, destined to be forgotten? Perhaps it’s time to stop waiting for them to remember us and turn our attention inward? At 65, David and I stand at a crossroads. Ahead lies uncertainty, but somewhere beyond, hope for happiness shimmers—ours, not anyone else’s. We’ve always put ourselves last, yet don’t we deserve a bit of joy for us? 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 do we accept this emptiness and find light within it? What do you think?
