I gave birth to three sons, yet in my later years, I find myself unwanted by them…
I brought five children into this world and devoted my entire being to them, sparing no effort, health, or regard for my own desires. This was three decades ago, in a small village near Norfolk, where every day was a struggle to ensure their happiness. Now, my sons and daughters have spread across the globe, started their own families, and I am left alone, gazing into the void they left behind.
My bond with my daughters is strong as steel. They visit me, bring treats, help around the house, and fill my home with warmth and laughter. We celebrate all the holidays together—they know how much I yearn in solitude, how the silence weighs me down. My house is large, there’s room for everyone, and I always welcome them with open arms. But my sons… They seem like strangers. It’s as if I’m not their mother but a shadow from the past. I understand, they have their wives, children, and responsibilities. But how can they so easily disregard the one who gave them life?
When my husband, John, called them to ask for help fixing the roof, they brushed it off like an annoying fly. Rain was pouring into the house, water dripping right onto the floor, and John and I used the last of our pension to hire strangers to save our nest. The sons didn’t even ask how we managed. They don’t call, they don’t write. Even on birthdays, when you hope for even a word, a drop of respect in your old age, from them—there is only a deafening silence.
I don’t think it’s their wives turning them against us. It seems to be their choice to forget the old folks, to brush us off like an unnecessary burden. I’ve observed my daughters-in-law—three seemingly kind, reasonable women. Yet, my sons always have excuses about work, commitments, eternal busyness. But don’t my daughters work too? Don’t they have families? Why do they find time to visit, to hug, to bring groceries, while my sons and their wives won’t even let me delight in the lively voices of my grandchildren?
Right now, John and I need help more than ever. Our health is failing, like an old house in the wind, and my sons have turned their backs, as if we’ve died to them. My daughters and sons-in-law drive us to the doctors, pay for our medication out of their pockets, bring food, and warm our souls with their care. But the boys I raised, fed with a spoon, taught to live—they’ve left us to the whims of fate.
Two years ago, my middle daughter, Emily, was in a terrible accident. Now she’s confined to a wheelchair, needing care instead of helping us. My eldest, Sarah, moved to Canada last year for a better life—it’s understandable, but she’s far away, and I’m left without her support. She suggested hiring a nurse, but I refused, nearly bursting into tears from the hurt. Did I raise five children only to have a stranger wipe my tears and make me soup in my twilight years? Is this the reward for all my sacrifices?
One of my daughters-in-law, the youngest son’s wife, once remarked that we should sell the house and move to a care home. “They’ll feed you there, look after you, and there’ll be no complaints,” she said with a cold smile, as if she spoke of old furniture, not living people. How could she bring herself to say such a thing? I nearly choked on my indignation. Yes, we’re old, but not helpless! We walk, think, live—it’s just that our strength isn’t the same, and our health fails us more each day. We don’t ask for much—just a little attention, some warmth from the ones we raised with love.
Once again, I realized: there is no one closer than daughters. They’re my support, my angels preventing me from falling into the abyss of loneliness. And my sons… Let God be their judge. I gave them everything—my health, youth, sleepless nights, and in return, I’ve received only emptiness and indifference. Did I really deserve to be forgotten by those I lived for in my old age?
