I gave birth to three sons, and in my old age, I find they don’t need me…
I brought five children into this world, dedicating all my energy and health to them without regard for my own desires. This was thirty years ago in a small village near Oxford, where every day was a struggle to ensure their happiness. Now, my sons and daughters have spread across the globe, built their own families, and I’m left alone, staring at the emptiness they left behind.
With my daughters, the bond is strong as steel. They visit me, bring gifts, help around the house, and fill my home with warmth and laughter. We celebrate all holidays together because they know how much I long for companionship, how the silence oppresses me. I have a large house with enough space for everyone, and I always welcome them with open arms. But my sons… they’re like strangers. It’s as though I’m not their mother, just a shadow from the past. I understand they have their own wives, children, and responsibilities. But how can they so easily erase the one who gave them life?
When my husband, John, called them to come and fix the roof, they brushed it off like a pesky fly. The house was flooded with rainwater seeping in, dripping onto the floor, and we spent the last of our pension on strangers to save our nest. The sons didn’t even ask how we managed. They don’t call or write. Even on my birthday, when you hope for a kind word, even a whisper of respect for old age, there’s dead silence from them.
I don’t think their wives are turning them against us. It seems like their own choice to forget us elders and brush us off as unwanted burdens. I’ve observed my daughters-in-law — they all seem like kind, sensible women. But the sons always cite work, tasks, eternal busyness. Yet, don’t my daughters work? Don’t they have families too? How come they find time to visit, to hug, to bring groceries, while my sons and their wives don’t even bring the grandkids for a visit, don’t let me hear their cheerful voices?
Now, more than ever, John and I need help. Our health is deteriorating as an old house under gale, and it’s as if my sons have turned their backs as if we were dead to them. My daughters and their husbands take us to the hospital, pay for medications from their own pockets, bring food, and warm our souls with care. But the boys, whom I nurtured, spoon-fed, taught to live — they’ve left us at the mercy of fate.
Two years ago, my middle daughter, Lily, was in a terrible accident. Now she is confined to a wheelchair, and instead of helping us, she needs care. My eldest, Emma, moved to Canada last year for a better life — it’s understandable, but she’s far away, and I’ve been left without her support. She offered to hire a carer, but I refused, almost crying out of hurt. Did I give birth to five children only to have a stranger wipe my tears and cook soup in my twilight years? Is this the reward for all my sacrifices?
One of the daughters-in-law, the younger son’s wife, once suggested we sell the house and move into a nursing home. “They’ll feed you, look after you, and nobody will object,” she said with a cold smile, as if talking about old furniture, not living people. How could she bring herself to say that? I was nearly breathless with indignation. Yes, we’re old, but not helpless! We walk, think, live — just with less strength, and health lets us down every day. We don’t ask for much — just a bit of attention, a touch of warmth from those we raised with love.
Once again, I’ve realized there’s no one closer than daughters. They are my support, my angels, preventing me from falling into the abyss of loneliness. And the sons… may God judge them. I gave them everything — health, youth, sleepless nights, and in return, I received only emptiness and indifference. Do I really deserve to be forgotten in my old age by those I lived for?
