**A Diary of Love and Loneliness**
My husband and I denied ourselves everything so our children could have more. And now, in old age, we find ourselves entirely alone.
All our lives, we sacrificed for our childrennot for ourselves, nor for success, but only for them, our beloved three, whom we adored, spoiled, and for whom we gave up everything. Who could have imagined that at the end, when our health faded and our strength disappeared, wed be met with silence and pain instead of gratitude and care?
George and I had known each other since childhoodwe grew up on the same street, shared a school desk. At eighteen, we married. The wedding was modest; money was tight. A few months later, I learned I was pregnant. George left college and took two jobsjust to keep food on the table.
We lived in poverty. Some days, we ate nothing but baked potatoes, but we never complained. We knew why we were doing it. We dreamed our children would never know the hardship we endured. When things improved slightly, I fell 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 children, no family to rely on. My mother had died young, and Georges mother lived far away, too wrapped up in her own life. I divided my time between the kitchen and the bedroom while George worked himself to exhaustion, coming home with weary eyes and wind-chapped hands.
By thirty, Id given birth to our third. Hard? Undoubtedly. But we never expected life to be easy. We werent meant to driftwe just kept going. Between loans and exhaustion, we somehow bought flats for two of them. How many sleepless nights it cost us, only God knows. Our youngest, Emily, dreamed of becoming a doctor, so we saved every penny and sent her abroad to study. We took out another loan and told ourselves, *Well manage.*
The years passed like a time-lapse film. The children grew up and flew away, each into their own lives. Then old age camenot slowly, but like a freight train, with Georges diagnosis. He weakened, fading before my eyes. I cared for him alone. No calls, no visits.
When I begged our eldest, Sophie, to come, she curtly replied, *I have children, my own life. I cant drop everything.* Soon after, a friend told me shed seen Sophie out at a pub with friends.
Our son, Thomas, claimed he was too busy workingthough that same day, he posted photos from a beach in Spain. And Emilythe one for whom we sold half our belongings, the one with the prestigious degreesimply texted, *Sorry, I cant miss my exams.* That was all.
The nights were the worst. I sat by Georges 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 a flicker of concern. Wed given them everythingwe ate less so they could eat well, wore threadbare clothes so they could dress fashionably, never took holidays so they could fly off in the sun.
Now? Now we were a burden. And the cruelest part? It wasnt even betrayal. It was the realisation wed been erased. Once, wed been useful. Now? We were just in the way. They were young, alive, with bright futures. We? Relics of a past no one wanted to remember.
Sometimes, Id hear neighbours laughter in the hallwaygrandchildren visiting. Sometimes, Id see my old friend Margaret with her daughter on her arm…
My heart would race every time footsteps echoed outside, hoping it might be one of mine. But it never was. Just couriers or nurses for the flat next door.
George died quietly one damp November morning. He pressed my hand and whispered, *You were wonderful, Nina.* Then he was gone. No one came to say goodbye. No flowers, no rushed flights. Just me and a hospice nurse who wept 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 draped over me. 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 portraits on the mantel and think, *Where did we go wrong?*
Weeks later, I did something Id never done beforeleft 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, they could.
But it wasnt a thief who came.
It was around four in the afternoonI remember because some dreadful talk show I always hated was on. I was folding a towel when I heard a light knock, then a voice: *Hello?*
I turned and saw a girl in the doorway. Early twenties, dark curly hair, drowning in an oversized jumper. She hesitated, as if shed got the wrong flat. *Sorry, think Ive got the wrong place,* she mumbled. I couldve shut the door. But I didnt. *No trouble,* I said. *Fancy some tea?* She looked at me like I was mad, then nodded. *Yeah. Thatd be nice.*
Her name was Lucy. Shed just moved next door after her stepfather kicked her out. We sat at the table, drinking lukewarm tea and chatting about nothing. She told me about her night shifts at the supermarket. How she sometimes felt invisible. *Sounds familiar,* I said.
After that, Lucy visited often. Sometimes she brought a slice of banana cake (*probably inedible,* shed say), sometimes a jigsaw puzzle shed fished from a charity bin. I began to listen for her footsteps. She didnt treat me like a burden. She asked about George. Laughed at my stories. Once, she even fixed my leaky tap without being asked.
Then, on my birthdaythe one my children forgotshe brought a tiny cake with *Happy Birthday, Nina!* scrawled in icing. I cried. Not for 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. And you know what? I didnt feel crushed. I felt free. Free of hoping theyd become who Id imagined. Free after years of humiliation, chasing crumbs of attention. I stopped running after them.
I started leaving the house again. Joined a pottery class. Planted basil on the windowsill. Sometimes Lucy has dinner with me. Sometimes not. And thats fine. She has her own life, but she makes space for mine too.
Last week, I got a letter. No return address. Inside was an old photothe five of us on a beach, sunburnt and grinning. On the back, three words: *Im so sorry.* I didnt recognise the handwriting. Maybe Sophies. Maybe not. I placed it on the shelf, next to where George 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 all our lives. Only now, in the quiet, am I learning what love truly is. Its the one who stays even when they dont have to.
So if youre reading this and feel forgottenknow your story isnt over. Love might arrive in a jumper, not on a postcard. Keep your door unlocked. Not for who youve lost, but for who might still walk in.
