**Diary Entry November 12th**
My husband and I gave up everything so our children could have more. And now, in our old age, we find ourselves utterly alone.
All our lives, we sacrificedforgoing dreams, comforts, and even necessitiesjust to give our three children a better start. We adored them, spoiled them, lived only for them. Who could have imagined that at the end of it all, when our health failed and our strength waned, wed be met not with gratitude, but silence?
John and I grew up togethersame street, same school desk. At eighteen, we married in a modest ceremony, barely scraping by. When I fell pregnant, John left college and took two jobs just to keep food on the table. We lived on baked potatoes for days, never complaining. We wanted our children to never know the hunger wed endured. When things improved slightly, we had another childthen another. No help from family, no one to rely on. My mother had passed young, and Johns mum was too wrapped in her own life. I juggled nappies and meals while John worked himself ragged, coming home with frostbitten hands and hollow eyes.
By thirty, we had three. Hard? Of course. But we never expected easy. We scraped together every pennytook out loans, sold half our belongingsto buy flats for two of them and send our youngest, Emily, to medical school abroad. Well manage, we told ourselves.
Years blurred past. The children grew, flew the nest. Then old age hit like a freight trainJohns diagnosis, his slow decline. I nursed him alone. No calls, no visits. When I begged our eldest, Sophie, to come, she said, Ive got my own life, Mum. A friend later spotted her laughing in a pub. Our son, Thomas, posted beach photos from Spain the day I rang about Johns fever. And Emilythe one wed sacrificed most fortexted, Sorry, exams.
The nights were worst. Spooning soup into Johns mouth, holding his hand through the pain, praying he still felt needed. Because he wasto me.
Then it struck me: we were irrelevant. Once useful, now a burden. They were young, vibrant; we were relics. Id hear neighbours grandchildren laughing in the hall, see old Margaret arm-in-arm with her daughter My heart would leap at footsteps outside, hopingbut it was only couriers.
John died on a damp November morning. Just me and a hospice nurse by his side. No flowers, no rushed flights. For two days, I couldnt eat. The silence suffocated. His untouched pillow, the framed school photos on the mantel*Where did we go wrong?*
Weeks later, I left the door unlocked. Not from hope, but apathy. Let thieves take the chipped mugs, the knitting basket. What did it matter?
Then, at half-fourduring that dreadful talk show I hateda knock. A girl stood there, maybe twenty, curly dark hair, drowning in an oversized jumper. Wrong flat, she mumbled. But I said, Fancy a cuppa?
Her name was Lily. New to the building, kicked out by her stepdad. We drank stale tea, chatting about nothing. She worked night shifts at Tesco, felt invisible. Sounds familiar, I said.
She started visitingbringing lopsided banana bread, second-hand puzzles. Fixed my leaky tap without asking. On my birthdaythe one my children forgotshe brought a cake with Happy Birthday, Nina! in wobbly icing. I cried. Not for the cake. Because she *remembered*.
That night, Emily texted: *Sorry, been busy. Hope youre well.* No sting. Just freedom. Freedom from hoping theyd become who Id imagined.
I joined a pottery class. Planted basil on the sill. Lily dines with me sometimes. Not alwaysshes her own person. And thats alright.
Last week, an envelope arrived. No return address. Inside, a faded photous five at Brighton, sunburnt and grinning. On the back: *So sorry.* I didnt recognise the handwriting. Maybe Sophies. Maybe not. I placed it beside Johns old keys and whispered, Its alright. I forgive you.
Heres the truth no one tells you: being needed isnt the same as being loved. We were needed all our lives. Only now, in the quiet, do I understand real lovethe kind that stays when it gains nothing.
So if youre reading this and feel forgotten: your story isnt over. Love might arrive in a borrowed jumper, not a Hallmark card. Keep the door opennot for who youve lost, but for who might yet walk in.
