The Dream That Won’t Come True: The Kids Have Grown Up, But Forgotten That Happiness Is Family
I’m sixty-one. My husband and I have been married for over forty years—through thick and thin, tears and laughter. We’ve seen it all. And now, in the twilight of our days, there’s just one thing we long for: grandchildren. To hear the pitter-patter of tiny feet, to see little ones who look like our son or daughter, to hold them close and pass on all the warmth my motherly heart aches to give. But it seems this dream might never come true…
Our son, Edward, is already thirty-five. He’s brilliant—lead programmer at a major international firm. Earns a handsome salary, bought a posh flat in central London, and is saving up for his dream car. He helps us, too—financially and emotionally. We’re proud of him. But every time I bring up starting a family, he waves me off like a bothersome fly.
“Mum, I’m living for myself. I’m not getting married or having kids,” he told me once on his birthday, when I foolishly started daydreaming aloud about grandchildren.
Honestly, I barely held back tears. My chest tightened, and the room seemed to darken. My husband tried to console me—said things might still change. But deep down, I know they won’t. He’s too attached to his freedom and comfort.
And it’s not just Edward. Our daughter, Charlotte, is heading down the same path. She was always the nurturing one, so domestic—how could she not want a family? We dismissed her words at fifteen—”I’m never getting married or having kids”—as teenage rebellion. Who takes a fifteen-year-old seriously?
Now Charlotte’s twenty-nine. Gorgeous, sharp, successful. She’s been with her boyfriend for four years, yet no wedding bells. I’ve asked, gently, if they’ve thought about making it official. They just laughed.
“Mum, what century are you living in? No one cares about a stamp in a passport anymore. We’re happy as we are.”
When I cautiously mentioned children, she cut me off.
“Mum, I’ve got my career—projects, meetings, business trips. I don’t have time for nappies and colic.”
I tried explaining that youth doesn’t last forever, that a woman’s body isn’t as forgiving after thirty. But she wouldn’t listen. Said she wasn’t obligated to meet anyone’s expectations, that happiness isn’t about family but “self-fulfilment.”
It was like a knife to my heart. I’m not some stranger. I’m her *mother*. I’m not her enemy. I don’t ask for much—just to bake apple pies for my grandkids, to tell them the same stories I told my children, to knit them little blankets. But they won’t even give me the chance. It’s not just that they don’t want kids—they don’t want marriage, family, any of the things we raised them to value.
Recently, Charlotte and I had a bit of a row. She came round for tea, and I’d just had a call from a friend boasting about becoming a grandmother *again*—her daughter’s only twenty-six, already on baby number two. Meanwhile, mine… acts like I’m intruding.
I couldn’t help myself. Told her that at her age, I already had two kids, that I’d pushed prams down the street and sung lullabies at midnight—*that* was real happiness. She stiffened, leaned back in her chair, and said coolly,
“Mum, don’t compare me to you. Your life isn’t mine. I’m not having kids just so you feel needed.”
I cried. She left without saying goodbye. I sat there with my cold tea and shaking hands, wondering—where did I go wrong? Was I too soft? Too pushy? When did I, their mother, lose them?
Now most of my friends are bouncing grandchildren on their knees while I paste on a smile, swallow my envy, and go home to silence. No giggles, no toys strewn about, no little arms reaching up shouting, “Gran!”
Edward’s holed up in his flat, buried in spreadsheets and gadgets. Charlotte hides behind her laptop, pretending she’s got it all figured out. And me? I’m left with a broken heart and a stubborn little hope. Maybe it’s not too late?
Maybe one day they’ll realise. That money, careers, status—none of it lasts. But a grandchild hugging your neck and whispering, “I love you”? That’s forever. That stays in your soul long after everything else fades.
But time’s slipping away. And I’m starting to fear my “Grandma Express” might never pull into the station…
