At sixty-five, they realised their children no longer needed them. How does one accept this and begin to live for oneself?
In a modest cottage on the outskirts of Manchester, where every corner whispered memories of a lively youth, Eleanor sat with a cold cup of tea, staring into the distance. For the first time, her heart clenched with a bitter truth: the three children to whom she and her husband had devoted everything—time, energy, savings—had slipped into their own lives, leaving them behind. Their son wouldn’t even answer her calls. A haunting question lingered in her mind: would any of them remember to offer a glass of water when age truly took its toll?
Eleanor had married at twenty-five. Her husband, Alfred, had been her schoolmate, sweet on her for years. He had even followed her to university just to stay close. A year after their humble wedding, Eleanor fell pregnant. Their first daughter, Margaret, arrived when life was least prepared for such change. Alfred left his studies to work, while Eleanor took leave from hers.
Those were lean years. Alfred disappeared into long shifts, sometimes for days, while Eleanor learned motherhood, juggling the care of a child with finishing her degree. Two years later, she was expecting again. She switched to distance learning, and Alfred took on extra work to keep them afloat.
Somehow, they raised two children—Margaret and their youngest, Edward. When Margaret started school, Eleanor finally found work in her field. Life eased slightly: Alfred secured a steady job with decent wages, and they made their small flat a home. Just as they caught their breath, Eleanor discovered she was carrying a third child.
The arrival of their youngest, Beatrice, brought fresh trials. Alfred took odd jobs to make ends meet, while Eleanor poured herself into the baby. How they managed, she still doesn’t know, but bit by bit, life steadied. When Beatrice started primary school, Eleanor felt a weight lift—as though she could breathe again.
But hardship wasn’t done. Margaret, barely into university, announced her engagement. Eleanor and Alfred didn’t protest—they, too, had married young. The wedding preparations and helping the young couple with a flat drained their savings and their energy.
Edward soon wanted a place of his own. They couldn’t refuse their son, so they took another loan to buy him a flat. Thankfully, Edward landed a position at a reputable firm, which eased Eleanor’s mind a little.
When Beatrice finished school, she shared her dream—studying abroad. Money was tight, but Eleanor and Alfred scraped together what they could and sent her to Europe. Beatrice left, and the house fell silent.
Over the years, the children visited less and less. Margaret, though she lived in Manchester, dropped by only occasionally, always too busy. Edward sold his flat, bought another in London, and visited once a year—if that. Beatrice, after graduating, stayed abroad, building her career.
Eleanor and Alfred had given their children everything—their youth, time, money, dreams. In return, they received silence. They didn’t expect money or care. Just a call, a visit, a kind word. But even that seemed too much to ask.
Now, Eleanor sits by the window, watching snow gather in the garden, wondering: perhaps it’s time to stop waiting? Perhaps, at sixty-five, she and Alfred deserve the happiness they always put last?
But how does one let go of such hurt? How to accept that the children they sacrificed for walked away without a backward glance? Eleanor remembers dreaming of travel, of books, of living for herself—but the years slipped by in service to others. Now, on the edge of old age, she feels life slipping through her fingers.
Alfred says nothing, but she sees the same sorrow in his eyes. He, too, gave his all and now faces the hollow silence. They don’t want to be a burden, nor can they bear waiting for a call that may never come.
“Perhaps it’s time we lived for ourselves,” Eleanor murmurs, squeezing his hand. “A trip to the seaside, like we talked about? Or just evening walks, without wondering who might ring?”
Alfred looks at her, and something flickers in his gaze.
“Perhaps it is,” he says. “We’re still here, after all.”
Yet deep down, Eleanor fears—have they forgotten how to live for themselves? Is all that remains the memory of being needed? Still, meeting her husband’s eyes, she resolves: they will try. They’ll find the strength to begin again, even if it seems impossible.
