Me and my husband gave up everything so our kids could have more. And now, in our old age, weve ended up completely alone.
Our whole lives, we went without so our children could have everything. And now, in our twilight years, here we arejust the two of us, forgotten.
We lived entirely for our kids. Not for ourselves, not for successjust for them, our beloved trio, the ones we adored, spoiled, and sacrificed everything for. Whod have thought that at the end of the road, when our health failed and our strength faded, wed be left with nothing but silence and heartache instead of gratitude and care?
John and I knew each other since we were kidsgrew up on the same street, sat at the same school desk. At eighteen, we got married. The wedding was simple; money was tight. A few months later, I found out I was pregnant. John dropped out of college and took on two jobsjust to keep food on the table.
We lived in poverty. Some days, all we had were baked potatoes, but we never complained. We knew why we were doing it. We dreamed of our children never knowing the hardship wed endured. And when things got a little better, I got pregnant again. It was terrifying, but we didnt back downof course we raised that child too. You dont abandon your own.
Back then, we had no help. No one to watch the kids, no family to rely on. My mum died young, and Johns lived too far away, wrapped up in her own life. I split my time between the kitchen and the bedroom while John worked himself to exhaustion, coming home with tired eyes and wind-chapped hands.
By thirty, Id had our third. Hard? Absolutely. But we never expected life to be easy. We werent the kind to just drift along. We kept going. Between loans and exhaustion, we somehow managed to buy flats for two of them. How many sleepless nights it cost us, only God knows. Our little girl dreamed of being a doctor, so we scrimped every penny and sent her abroad to study. We took out another loan and told ourselves, “Well make it work.”
The years flew by like scenes from a film. The kids grew up and flew the nest, each living their own lives. Then old age camenot slowly, but like a freight train, with Johns diagnosis. He weakened, fading before my eyes. I cared for him alone. No calls. No visits.
When I rang our eldest, Sophie, begging her to come, she just said, “Ive got my own kids, my own life. I cant drop everything.” Not long after, a friend told me shed seen her out at a pub with mates.
Our son, James, claimed he was swamped with workyet that same day, he posted photos from a beach in Spain. And our little girl, Emilythe one we sold half our things for, the one with the fancy degreejust texted, “Sorry, cant miss my exams.” That was it.
The nights were the worst. I sat by Johns bed, spoon-feeding him soup, checking his temperature, holding his hand when pain twisted his face. I didnt expect miraclesI just wanted him to know he still mattered. Because he mattered to *me*.
Thats when I realised: we were utterly alone. No support, no warmth, not even the slightest interest. We gave them everythingate less so they could eat well, wore threadbare clothes so they could dress stylishly, never took holidays so they could fly off to the sun.
Now? Now were a burden. And the cruelest part? It wasnt even betrayal. It was the realisation wed been erased. Once, we were useful. Now? Were just in the way. Theyre young, alive, with bright futures. And us? Were relics of a past no one wants to remember.
Sometimes, Id hear neighbours laughing in the hallgrandkids visiting. Sometimes, Id see my old friend Margaret with her daughters arm around her
My heart would pound every time I heard footsteps, hoping it was one of mine. But it never was. Just couriers or nurses next door.
John passed quietly one damp November morning. He squeezed my hand and whispered, “You were wonderful, Nina.” And then he was gone. No one came to say goodbye. No flowers, no rushed flights. Just me and a hospice nurse who cried more than all my children combined.
I didnt eat for two days. Couldnt even boil water for tea. The silence was unbearablethick, heavy, like a wet blanket pulled over my head. His side of the bed stayed untouched, though I hadnt slept there in months.
The worst part? I didnt even feel anger anymore. Just a dull, aching emptiness. Id stare at their framed school photos on the mantel and think, *Where did we go wrong?*
Weeks later, I did something Id never doneleft the front door unlocked. Not because I forgot, or hoped someone would come. But because I didnt care anymore. If someone wanted to steal my chipped mugs or knitting basket, let them.
But it wasnt a thief. It was a new beginning.
Around four in the afternoonI remember because some rubbish talk show I always hated was onI was folding a towel when I heard a soft knock, then a voice: “Hello?”
I turned and saw a girl in the doorway. Early twenties, curly dark hair, an oversized jumper. She hesitated, like shed got the wrong flat. “Sorry, I think Ive got the wrong place,” she mumbled. I couldve shut the door. But I didnt. “No bother,” I said. “Fancy a cuppa?” She looked at me like I was mad, then nodded. “Yeah. Thatd be lovely.”
Her name was Lily. Shed just moved next door after her stepdad kicked her out. We sat at the table, drinking lukewarm tea, chatting about nothing and everything. She told me about her night shifts at the supermarket, how she sometimes felt invisible. “Sounds familiar,” I said.
After that, Lily started dropping by. Sometimes shed bring a slice of banana loaf shed “probably ruined,” sometimes a jigsaw puzzle shed fished from a charity bin. Id catch myself waiting for the sound of her steps. She didnt see me as a burden. She asked about John. She laughed at my stories. Once, she even fixed my leaky tap without being asked.
Then, on my birthdaythe one my kids forgotshe brought a little cake with *Happy Birthday, Nina!* scrawled in icing. I cried. Not over the cake. Because she remembered.
That same night, I got a text from Emily. *Sorry I missed it. Been busy. Hope youre okay.* Not a call. Just words on a screen. And you know what? I didnt feel crushed. I felt free. Free from hoping theyd become who Id imagined. Free after years of begging for scraps of attention. I stopped chasing them.
I started leaving the house again. Took a pottery class. Planted basil on the windowsill. Sometimes Lily has dinner with me. Sometimes she doesnt. And thats fine. Shes got her own life, but she makes space for me too.
Last week, a letter arrived. No return address. Inside was an old photous five on a beach, sunburnt and grinning. On the back, three words: *Im so sorry.* I didnt recognise the handwriting. Maybe Sophies. Maybe not. I put it on the shelf, next to where John left his keys, and whispered, “Its alright. I forgive you.”
Because heres the truth no one tells you: being needed isnt the same as being loved. We were needed our whole lives. Only now, in the quiet, am I learning what real love is. Its the one who stays when they dont have to.
So if youre reading this and feeling forgottenknow your story isnt over. Love might come in a jumper, not on a postcard. Keep your door unlocked. Not for who youve lost, but for who might still walk in.
