My husband and I starved ourselves so our children could live better lives. Now, in our old age, we’re left utterly alone.
Our entire lives revolved around our children—not ourselves, not success, just them, our beloved three. We nurtured them, sacrificed everything we had. Who would’ve thought that at the end of this road, when our health falters and our strength wanes, we’d be left with nothing but pain and emptiness instead of gratitude and care?
Oliver and I have known each other since childhood—we grew up on the same street, sat in the same classroom. We married when I turned eighteen. The wedding was modest; we had no money to spare. Just months later, I found out I was pregnant. Oliver dropped out of university and took on two jobs to keep food on the table.
We lived poorly. Sometimes we ate nothing but potatoes for days, but we never complained. We knew why we endured it—we dreamed of our children never knowing the poverty we’d suffered. When things stabilised slightly, I fell pregnant again. It was terrifying, but we never hesitated—of course we’d raise this child. It was ours.
No one helped us. No family stepped in to babysit. My mother had passed young, and Oliver’s mum lived in another county, too wrapped up in herself to care. I lived in the kitchen and nursery, while Oliver worked himself ragged, coming home late with exhaustion in his eyes and his hands cracked from the cold.
By thirty, I had our third. Was it hard? Of course. But we never expected life to be easy. We weren’t spoiled—we just kept moving forward. Through loans and backbreaking work, we managed to buy flats for two of our children. Only God knows how many sleepless nights that cost. The youngest dreamed of becoming a doctor, so we sent her abroad, taking out yet another loan.
Years flew by like a sped-up film. The children grew up and scattered. They built their own lives, while ours narrowed into old age—not the slow, peaceful kind we hoped for, but a harsh one, marked by Oliver’s failing health. I nursed him alone. No calls. No visits.
When I phoned our eldest daughter, begging her to come, she snapped:
“I’ve got my own kids, my own life. I can’t just drop everything.”
Yet friends later told me they’d seen her laughing in a café with her mates.
Our son blamed work, though that same day, he posted beach photos from Spain.
The youngest—the one we nearly bankrupted ourselves for, the one with the prestigious degree—claimed she was drowning in exams. And that was that.
Nights blurred as I sat by Oliver’s bedside, spoon-feeding him, checking his temperature, holding his hand through the pain. I wasn’t waiting for miracles—I just wanted him to know someone still needed him. Because I did.
In those quiet hours, I realised: we’re completely alone. No support, no warmth, not even basic interest. We gave them everything. We skipped meals so they could eat. We wore threadbare clothes so they could have the best. We never took holidays—just so they could trip abroad.
Now, we’re a burden. And the cruelest part isn’t the betrayal. It’s knowing we’ve been erased. Needed only while we were useful. Now? We’re just in the way. They’re young. They’re living. Their futures stretch ahead. We’re relics of a past no one cares to remember.
Sometimes, I hear neighbours laughing—grandchildren visiting. Sometimes, I see an old friend arm-in-arm with her daughter in the park. My chest tightens. That’ll never be us. To our children, we’re just a footnote.
I’ve stopped calling. Stopped reminding them we exist. Oliver and I live in our small, tidy flat. I make his porridge, play old films, hold his hand till he drifts off. Every evening, I whisper one plea to the sky: let his passing be gentle. He’s suffered enough.
The children? I suppose they’re doing well. Isn’t that what we wanted? So why does this “success” taste so bitter? Why does the silence feel so cold?
We starved for their happiness. Now, we swallow our tears in the quiet.
