At sixty-five, it dawned on usour children no longer needed us. How do we accept this and begin living for ourselves?
I am sixty-five years old, and for the first time, I find myself asking: our children, to whom my husband and I gave everything, have moved on without us. The three of themwhom we poured our time, energy, and savings intotook what they wanted and left us behind. My son wont even pick up the phone when I call. Sometimes I wonder: will any of them even think to bring us a cup of tea when were too frail to make it ourselves?
I married at twenty-five. Edward was my university sweetheart, and he pursued me relentlessly. He even switched courses just to be near me. A year after our simple wedding, I fell pregnant, and our first daughter arrived. Edward left his studies to work, while I took time off to care for her.
Those were lean years. My husband worked gruelling hours, and I juggled motherhood with finishing my degree. Two years later, another pregnancy forced me into part-time study, while Edward took on extra shifts to keep us afloat.
Still, we raised themour eldest, Charlotte, and our younger son, James. When Charlotte started school, I finally secured a proper job in my field. Life eased a little; Edward now had a steady income, and we bought our own home. Just as we caught our breath, I found myself pregnant again.
The arrival of our third child, Sophie, stretched us to the limit. Edward worked like a man possessed, while I devoted myself to raising her. Somehow, we made it through. When Sophie began primary school, I felt the weight lift at last.
But the challenges didnt end. Charlotte, barely into her university years, announced her engagement. We didnt stand in her waywed married young ourselves. The wedding costs and helping her buy a flat drained our savings.
James, too, wanted his own place. We couldnt refuse, so we took out another mortgage for his flat. Thankfully, he landed a well-paid job in the City soon after.
Then Sophie, in her final A-level year, declared she wanted to study in America. It nearly broke us, but we scraped together the funds to send her. She left, and the house fell silent.
Over time, the visits dwindled. Charlotte, though living in London, rarely dropped by. James sold his flat, moved to Edinburgh, and barely called. Sophie, degree in hand, stayed abroad.
We gave them everythingour youth, our money, our love. And in return? We became an afterthought. We dont ask for money, only a word, a visit, some small sign they remember us.
But perhaps that time has passed. Maybe, at sixty-five, its time to stop waitingto finally live for ourselves. Havent we earned that much?
