Monday, 15th November
This morning, as I sat in our little cottage on the outskirts of York, sipping lukewarm tea, it struck me with cruel clarity: our children don’t need us anymore. At sixty-five, the realisation feels like a door slamming shut. The three souls we poured everything into—time, money, our own dreams—have drifted into their own lives, leaving silence in their wake. Our son barely answers our calls. There’s a quiet terror in wondering: will any of them care to pass us a glass of water when time finally catches up with us?
I married Arthur at twenty-five. He’d been my school friend, sweetly persistent in his courtship, even following me to university. A modest wedding, and within a year, I was pregnant. Our first, Emma, arrived when we were scarcely ready. Arthur dropped out to work double shifts while I took a year’s leave from studies.
Those were lean years. Arthur practically lived at the factory while I learned motherhood between textbooks. Two years later, another pregnancy. I switched to distance learning; Arthur took on extra deliveries. Somehow, we raised Emma and our boy, Thomas. When Emma started school, I finally landed a proper teaching post. Life steadied—Arthur got a manager’s position, we furnished our tiny flat—but just as we breathed easier, I found myself expecting again.
Little Sophie’s arrival tested us anew. Arthur took whatever overtime he could find; I left work to mind her. I don’t know how we managed, but we did. By the time Sophie started primary school, it felt as if we’d climbed a mountain.
Yet the challenges never ended. Emma, barely into university, announced her engagement. We didn’t protest—we’d married young too—but the wedding costs and helping with their flat deposit cleaned out our savings. Then Thomas wanted his own place. How could we say no? Another loan, another flat. At least he landed a decent job in London quickly.
When Sophie finished sixth form, she dreamed of studying abroad. Money was tight, but we scraped together what we could and sent her to France. The house grew quiet.
Now, the visits are scarce. Emma, just an hour away, drops by sparingly, always “too busy.” Thomas sold his flat, moved to Edinburgh, and visits maybe once a year. Sophie stayed abroad after graduation, carving out her life.
We gave them everything—youth, funds, our own aspirations. And what have we in return? Silence. We don’t want their money or their care. Just a phone call. A weekend visit. A kind word. But even that seems too much to ask.
This evening, watching frost settle over the garden, I wondered: perhaps it’s time to stop waiting. At sixty-five, don’t Arthur and I deserve the happiness we always postponed?
But how does one unlearn a lifetime of putting others first? The dreams we buried—traveling the Cotswolds, losing ourselves in books, lazy afternoons with no one to worry over—feel like someone else’s now. Age hums at the edges of our days, and I can’t shake the fear that we’ve forgotten how to live for ourselves.
Arthur’s quiet, but his eyes mirror the same ache. He gave his all, just as I did. Now we’re left with empty chairs and the dread of becoming burdens.
“Maybe we ought to start living for us,” I said tonight, squeezing his hand. “Take that trip to Cornwall we always talked about. Or just walk by the river without watching the clock.”
He looked at me, and for a moment, something flickered in his gaze.
“Maybe we should,” he murmured. “We’re still here, aren’t we?”
But the doubt nags: what if we’ve lost the knack for it? What if all we have left is the echo of being needed? Still, as I watch Arthur stir the fire, I decide we’ll try. However impossible it seems, we’ll learn to fill the silence with something new.
