June 12th, 2023
At sixty-five, it dawned on meour children dont need us anymore. For the first time, Im forced to reckon with it: the three we poured our lives into, gave every spare moment and penny, have simply moved on. My son, James, wont even pick up the phone. Some days, I wonderwill any of them bother to check if were still breathing when were too old to manage?
I married Geoffrey at twenty-five. Wed been schoolmates, and hed followed me to university, determined to stay close. A modest registry office wedding, and a year later, our first, Sophie, arrived. Geoffrey left his studies to keep us afloat while I juggled nappies and coursework.
Those years were lean. He worked double shifts; I scraped through motherhood and exams. Two years on, another pregnancy. Part-time studies, more odd jobs for Geoffreysomehow, we kept the roof over our heads.
We raised themSophie first, then James. When Sophie started school, I landed a proper job at last. Geoffrey climbed the ranks at the firm. Life eased. Then, just as we caught our breath, along came Charlotte.
Charlottes arrival stretched us thin again. Geoffrey took on more overtime; I left work to tend to her. No idea how we managed, but bit by bit, we found our feet. The day she started Year One, I finally exhaled.
But life never stays quiet. At eighteen, Sophie announced her engagement. We didnt arguewed married young too. The wedding, the flat depositit wiped out savings wed barely rebuilt.
James wanted his own place next. Couldnt refuse him. Another mortgage, another flat in his name. At least he landed a decent job straight off.
Then Charlotte, in her A-level year, set her sights on university in Edinburgh. We scraped together the tuition, sent her off with suitcases and hope. After graduation, she stayed up north.
Now, the house is too quiet. Sophies just across town but might as well be in Cornwall for how often she visits. James moved to London, drops by maybe twice a year. Charlotte? A phone call at Christmas if were lucky.
We gave them everythingyears, money, the best of ourselves. And whats left? Silence. We dont ask for handouts. Just a word now and then. A cup of tea shared. But perhaps thats too much.
Maybe its time to stop waiting. At sixty-five, havent we earned the right to put ourselves first for once? The lessons bitter but clear: you can pour your whole heart into them, but children arent obliged to love you back.
