My husband and I starved ourselves so our children could live better lives. And now, in our old age, we are left in complete solitude.
All our lives, Simon and I lived for our children. Not for ourselves, not for success—only for them, our beloved three, whom we cherished, spoiled, sacrificed everything for. Who would have thought that at the end of this road, when our health falters and our strength wanes, we’d be met not with gratitude or care, but with pain and emptiness?
Simon and I knew each other since childhood—grew up on the same street, sat in the same classroom. When I turned eighteen, we married. The wedding was humble; we barely had a penny to our name. Months later, I discovered I was pregnant. Simon dropped out of university, taking on two jobs just to put food on the table.
We were poor. Sometimes we ate nothing but potatoes for days, but we never complained. We knew why we endured it—so our children wouldn’t know the hunger we had. And when things stabilised, I fell pregnant again. Fear gripped us, but we never hesitated. This was our child.
There were no helpers. No one to lean on, no one to watch the little ones. My mother had passed young, and Simon’s mother lived across the country, too busy with her own life. I lived between the kitchen and the nursery, while Simon came home late, hands cracked from the cold, exhaustion weighing his eyes down.
By thirty, I gave birth to our third. Was it hard? Of course. But we never expected easy. Life had never coddled us. So we pressed on—through loans, gruelling work—until we managed to buy flats for two of them. How many sleepless nights that cost, only God knew. Our youngest? We sent her to study abroad—she dreamed of becoming a doctor. Another loan. Another sacrifice. “We’ll manage,” we told ourselves.
The years blurred past. The children grew. They scattered. Built their own lives. And old age came for us—not gently, but sharp as a slap. Simon fell ill, weakening day by day. I cared for him alone. No calls. No visits.
When I begged our eldest to come, she snapped, *“I have my own children, my own life. I can’t.”*
Yet friends saw her laughing in cafés with her girlfriends.
Our son claimed work kept him away—then posted beach photos from Spain that very evening.
And our youngest, the one we emptied our savings for? *“Exams,”* was all she said.
I sat by Simon’s bed at night, spoon-fed him, checked his fever, held his hand when pain twisted his face. I didn’t expect miracles—only that he’d know he wasn’t alone. That I still needed him. Because I did.
And in those hours, I understood—we were alone. Truly, utterly. No warmth. No care. Not even curiosity. We gave them everything. We starved so they could eat. We wore rags so they could have new clothes. We never rested—so they could travel, could live.
Now? We are 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 are in the way. They are young. They have futures. And we? We are just relics of a past no one cares to remember.
Sometimes, I hear neighbours laughing—grandchildren visiting. Sometimes, I see a friend walking arm in arm with her daughter. And my chest tightens. That will never be us. To our children, we are just a story.
I don’t call anymore. I don’t remind them we exist. Simon and I live in our small, spotless flat. I cook his porridge, put on old films, sit beside him as he drifts off. And every night, I pray for just one thing—let his passing be gentle. He’s suffered enough.
And the children? Well. I suppose they’re happy. Isn’t that what we worked for? Then why does it ache so much? Why does the silence feel so cold?
We starved for their happiness. Now we swallow our tears in the dark.
