At 65, we’ve realized 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 in my life, I’m faced with a bitter question: have the very children my husband and I sacrificed everything for cast us aside like old, unwanted things? Our three children, to whom we gave our youth, energy, and every last penny, have taken all they wanted from us and moved on without a backward glance. My son doesn’t answer when I call, and I find myself wondering: will any of them even offer us a glass of water 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 Nottingham. My husband, George, was my schoolmate, an insistent romantic who spent years trying to win my attention. He enrolled at the same university to stay close. A year after our modest wedding, I found myself expecting. Our first daughter was born. George left his studies to work, while I took academic leave. Those were tough times—he toiled on construction sites from dawn till dusk, while I grappled with motherhood, striving not to neglect my exams. Two years later, I was pregnant again. I switched to part-time study, while George took on even more shifts to support us.
We stood firm, despite the challenges, and raised two children—our elder daughter, Lauren, and our son, Anthony. When Lauren started school, I finally landed a job in my field. Life began to stabilize: George found a steady job with a good salary, and we set up our flat. But just as we caught our breath, I discovered I was expecting again. It felt like a fresh blow. George worked even harder to support the family, and I stayed home with our little one, Natalie. How we managed, I still don’t grasp, but step by step, we regained stable ground. When Natalie went off to school, I felt relief for the first time, as though a weight had been lifted.
But the trials weren’t over. Lauren announced she was getting married right after starting university. We didn’t argue—after all, we married young too. The wedding and housing help drained our savings. Then Anthony wanted his own place. How could we say no to our son? We took out a loan, bought him a flat. Fortunately, he quickly secured a job with a large company, and we breathed easier. Meanwhile, Natalie, in her final year of school, stunned us with her dream of studying overseas. This was a significant financial hit, but we scraped together the funds, gritting our teeth, and sent her across the ocean. She left, and we found ourselves alone in an empty house.
Over the years, our children’s visits became infrequent. Lauren, though living in our city, would only pop by every six months, brushing off invitations. Anthony sold his flat, bought a new one in London, and visited even less—once a year, with luck. After finishing her studies, Natalie stayed abroad to build her life there. We gave them everything—time, health, dreams—and ended up being nothing to them. We’re not seeking money or help—God forbid. We yearn for a shred of warmth: a call, a visit, a kind word. Yet, there’s none of that. The phone remains silent, the door unopened, and inside grows a cold loneliness.
Now I sit, watching the autumn rain through the window, and wonder: is this it? Are we, who’ve given our every breath to our children, doomed to oblivion? Perhaps it’s time to stop waiting for them to remember us and turn towards ourselves? At 65, George and I are at a crossroads. Ahead lies uncertainty, but somewhere on the horizon, there’s a glimmer of hope for happiness—ours, not someone else’s. We’ve spent a lifetime putting ourselves last, but don’t we deserve a drop of joy for ourselves? I want to believe we do. I want to learn to live anew, for the two of us, while our hearts still beat. How do we embrace this emptiness and find light within it? What do you think?
