The Dream That Never Comes True: The Kids Have Grown Up, But Forgotten That Happiness Lies in Family
I’m sixty-one. My husband and I have spent over forty years together—through poverty, comfort, tears, and laughter. We’ve seen it all. And now, in the twilight of our days, there’s just one thing we long for—grandchildren. The pitter-patter of little feet, little ones who look like our son or daughter, holding them close, warming them with the love my mother’s heart aches to give. But it seems this dream will never come true…
Our son, Edward, is thirty-five. A brilliant man, lead programmer at a major international firm. He earns well, bought a posh flat in London, and is saving for his dream car. He helps us—both emotionally and financially. We respect him. He’s our pride. But every time I bring up starting a family, he brushes me off like a bothersome fly.
“Mum, I live for myself. I’m not getting married, and I’m not having kids,” he said once on his birthday, when I foolishly started dreaming aloud about grandchildren.
Honestly, I barely held back my tears. My vision blurred, and something inside me snapped. My husband tried to comfort me—said things could still change. But I know better. He’s too wrapped up in his freedom and comfort.
And it’s not just Edward. Our daughter, Emily, has gone down the same path. Though she was always the nurturing one growing up, so caring… Back when she was fifteen, we didn’t take her seriously when she said, “I’m never getting married or having kids.” Teenagers say all sorts of things, don’t they?
Now, Emily’s twenty-nine. Beautiful, clever, successful. Been living with her boyfriend for four years, but no wedding in sight. I’ve asked her—even spoken to him: “Maybe it’s time to make it official?” They just laughed.
“Mum, what century are you living in? No one needs a stamp in a passport these days. We’re happy as we are.”
And when I carefully brought up children, she cut me off.
“Mum, I’ve got work—projects, meetings, business trips. I don’t have time for nappies and colic.”
I tried to explain that youth doesn’t last. That a woman’s body isn’t made to wait. That it gets harder later—for her, and for the baby. But she wasn’t having it. Said she doesn’t owe anyone anything, that happiness isn’t about family, it’s about fulfilment.
It felt like a knife through my heart. I’m not *anyone*. I’m her mother. I’m not her enemy. I don’t ask for much. Just to hold my grandchild. To tell them the same fairy tales I told my own children. To bake an apple pie, stitch a baby blanket. But they won’t even give me the chance. It’s not just children they don’t want—it’s marriage, family, everything we raised them to believe in.
Not long ago, Emily and I had a blazing row. She came round for tea, and right before, my friend called gushing about becoming a grandmother *again*—her daughter’s only twenty-six with two kids already. And mine? Silence, as if I’m some stranger.
I lost my temper. Told her at her age, I’d already had two kids, pushed a pram down the street, sung lullabies at midnight—that **that** was real happiness. She stiffened, leaned back in her chair, and said coldly:
“Mum, don’t you dare compare me to you. You had your life. I have mine. I won’t have kids just to make you feel needed.”
I cried then. She left without another word. I sat there with a cold cuppa and shaking hands, wondering—where did I go wrong? Was I too soft? Should I have pushed harder? Or maybe not pushed at all? Where did I, their mother, fail them?
Now, nearly all my friends dote on grandchildren. I visit them, wipe away secret tears, force a smile, then go home to silence. No laughter, no toys on the floor, no tiny hands reaching for me, shouting, “Grandma!”
Edward’s locked away in his flat, buried in spreadsheets and gadgets. Emily hides behind her laptop, pretending she’s got it all figured out. And me? Just a broken heart and a flicker of hope. Maybe—just maybe—it’s not too late?
Maybe one day they’ll see… That money, career, status—all of it fades. But a grandchild’s arms around your neck, whispering *I love you*—that stays. Forever.
But time ticks on. And I’m starting to fear my train to “Grandmother’s Station” might never arrive.
