Me and my husband went without so our kids could have more. And now, in our old age, we’re left with nothing but silence and loneliness.
Our whole lives revolved around the children—not ourselves, not some grand achievements, just them, our three beloved ones. We poured everything into them, sacrificed every bit of comfort we had. And who’d have thought that at the end of it all, when our health is failing and our strength’s gone, we’d be met with emptiness instead of thanks?
I’ve known James since we were kids—grew up on the same street, sat in the same classroom. We got married when I turned eighteen. The wedding was simple—barely two pennies to rub together. A few months later, I found out I was pregnant, and James dropped out of uni to work two jobs just to keep food on the table.
We were skint. There were weeks when all we had were jacket potatoes, but we never complained. We knew why we were doing it. We dreamed our kids would never know the kind of struggle we’d lived through. And when things got a bit steadier, I fell pregnant again. Terrifying? Yeah. But we never once hesitated—of course we’d raise them. They were ours.
Back then, we had no help. No one to lean on, no one to watch the little ones. My mum died young, and James’s mum lived up in Yorkshire, too wrapped up in her own life. I lived between the kitchen and the nursery, and James came home late every night, eyes dull, hands cracked from the cold.
By thirty, I’d had our third. Hard? Of course. But we never expected easy. Life hadn’t spoiled us. We just kept going. Step by step, through loans and gruelling work, we managed to get two of them flats of their own. God only knows how many sleepless nights that cost. The youngest wanted to be a doctor, so we sent her to study abroad—another loan, another *”We’ll manage.”*
Years flew by like sped-up film. The kids grew up, moved on. They’ve got their own lives now. And then old age hit us—not gently, but sharp and sudden, with James’s diagnosis. He got weaker by the day. I cared for him alone. No calls, no visits.
When I rang our eldest and asked her to come, she snapped, *”I’ve got my own kids, my own life. I can’t just drop everything.”* But a friend saw her out at a café with her mates that same week.
Our son blamed work, though he posted beach photos from Spain that very day. And the youngest—the one we sold nearly everything for, the one with the fancy European degree—just said she was *”too swamped with exams.”* That was that.
Nights, I sat by James’s bed, spoon-feeding him, taking his temperature, holding his hand when he was in pain. I wasn’t waiting for miracles—just wanted him to know someone still needed him. Because *I* did.
And that’s when it hit me—we’re completely alone. No support, no warmth, not even a shred of interest. Yeah, we gave them everything. We went hungry so they could eat. We wore threadbare clothes so they could have new ones. We never took holidays so they could jet off.
Now? We’re just a burden. And the worst part isn’t even the betrayal. It’s realising you’ve been erased. You mattered when you were useful. Now? You’re just in the way. They’re young, they’re living, they’ve got whole futures ahead. And you? You’re just a past nobody cares about.
Sometimes I overhear neighbours laughing in the hall—grandkids visiting. Sometimes I see an old friend arm-in-arm with her daughter at the park. And something inside me twists. That’ll never be us. To our kids, we’re just a story.
So I stopped calling. Stopped reminding them we exist. James and I live in our little flat—small, but tidy. I make him porridge, put on old films, sit with him till he drifts off. Every night, I ask for just one thing—let it be easy for him. He doesn’t deserve more pain.
And the kids? Well… I suppose they’re doing alright. That’s what we worked for, isn’t it? Funny, though—how hollow that *”success”* feels. How cold the silence gets.
We starved ourselves for their happiness. Now we swallow tears in the quiet.
