I gave birth to three sons, but in my old age, I find myself forgotten by them…
I brought five children into this world, dedicating my entire self to them without sparing any effort or regard for my own desires. This was thirty years ago, in a small village near York, where every day was a fight for their happiness. Now, my sons and daughters have scattered across the globe, building their own families, while I’ve been left alone, staring into the void they left behind.
My daughters and I share a bond as strong as steel. They visit me, bring treats, help with chores, and fill my home with warmth and laughter. We celebrate every holiday together because they know how much loneliness saddens me, how silence weighs me down. I have a large house with enough room for everyone, and I always welcome them with open arms. But my sons… They feel like strangers. It’s as if I’m not their mother, but just a shadow from their past. I understand they have their own wives and children and responsibilities. But how can you easily forget the woman who gave you life?
When my husband, John, called them to ask for help fixing the roof, they waved us off like a pesky fly. Rainwater was leaking onto the floor, and we had to spend the last of our pension on strangers to save our home. The sons didn’t even ask how we managed. They don’t call or write. Even on my birthday, when you hope for a word or a drop of respect for your old age, there’s an overwhelming silence from them.
I doubt that their wives are turning them against us. It seems to be their decision to forget about us, to treat us like unwanted baggage. I’ve observed my daughters-in-law — they all seem like kind, sensible women. Yet my sons always blame work, obligations, perpetual busyness. But don’t my daughters work? Don’t they have families? How do they find the time to visit, embrace, and bring groceries, while my sons and their wives won’t even let me see my grandchildren or hear their cheerful voices?
Now more than ever, John and I need assistance. Our health is declining like an old house caught in a gale, and our sons have turned their backs, as if we’re already gone. Our daughters and their husbands take us to hospital appointments, pay for medications out of their pockets, bring us meals, and warm our hearts with their care. Yet the boys, the ones I raised, fed with a spoon, taught to live — they have left us to the whims of fate.
Two years ago, my middle daughter, Alice, was in a terrible accident. Now she’s confined to a wheelchair and, instead of helping us, needs care herself. My eldest, Sarah, moved to Canada last year seeking a better life — which is understandable, but she’s far away, and I’m without her support. She suggested hiring a caretaker, but I refused, nearly in tears from the hurt. Did I raise five children just to have a stranger wipe my tears and cook my soup at the end of my days? Is this the reward for all my sacrifices?
One of the daughters-in-law, my youngest son’s wife, once mentioned that we should sell the house and move to a retirement home. “They’ll feed you there, look after you, and no one will hold grudges,” she said with a cold smile as if talking about old furniture, not living people. How could she utter such words? I almost choked in outrage. Yes, we’re old, but not helpless! We can walk, think, live — it’s just that our strength is not what it used to be, and our health fails us daily. We don’t ask for much — just a bit of attention, a touch of warmth from those we lovingly nurtured.
Once again, I find there’s no one closer than daughters. They are my pillar, my angels who keep me from falling into an abyss of loneliness. As for the sons… Let God judge them. I gave them everything — my health, youth, sleepless nights, and received only emptiness and indifference in return. Did I truly deserve to be forgotten in my twilight years by those for whom I lived?
