The kids were growing up, and my day began and ended around them.
I've been the pillar of my family my whole life. When I got married, I was 22 and had big plans for the future. I imagined that I would create a home full of love, warmth, and support. And that's exactly what I did. I was a mother, a wife, a housekeeper, a confidante, a nurse, a cook – everything my family needed. I gave them my whole heart.
The kids were growing up, and my day began and ended around them. I took them to school, cooked their favorite meals, took care of every scratch, every fever, every tear. I never asked what I needed. The most important thing was that they had everything they needed.
When my husband came home from work, tired, there was a warm dinner and a clean house. I never complained that he rarely asked how I was. I knew it was his way of showing love—through work, through providing stability for us. I thought that would be enough. At that time, I didn't really think about what I wanted.
The children grew up and moved out of the house. My son started a family in another city, my daughter moved abroad. I was proud that I managed to raise them to be independent people. But when the house was empty, I started to feel that something was wrong.
At first, it seemed to me that it was just silence that I had to get used to. But with each passing day, I realized how much I missed their presence, their conversations, their laughter. My husband, although he was still with me, began to spend most of his time in front of the TV or at meetings with his friends. When I tried to talk to him, he would usually say: “You're exaggerating. The children have their own lives, and we have ours. You should be happy that they are happy.”
Maybe he was right, but that didn't change the fact that I felt more and more invisible. The phone calls from my son were less and less frequent, and when he did call, the conversation was limited to asking if everything was okay with me. I see my daughter once a year when she comes for vacation. Each time she visits me, it reminds me how far we have drifted apart. She used to tell me everything. Today, I feel like she talks to me out of politeness.
One situation hurt me the most. Last year I got sick and had to spend a few weeks in the hospital. I called my son and asked him to come visit me. He said he was very busy at work, but “as soon as he finds a moment, he'll come.” I waited every day, but he didn't come. Finally, after two weeks, he called.
– Mom, I'm sorry, but I really didn't have time. Is everything okay? – he asked, as if it were something completely normal.
I'm okay? No, nothing was okay. That was the first time I felt how lonely I was. How much, despite giving it my all my life, no one needs me now.
Today, as I sit at the kitchen table, looking at the empty house, I wonder if it was worth it. Was it worth giving up my dreams, my time, my space, to devote everything to my family? I love my children, but sometimes I ask myself if they love me the same. If they see something more in me than someone who once gave them everything?
I feel the tears welling up in my eyes, but I don't let them fall. I don't want anyone to see my pain – even though no one is looking. After all, I'm just a backdrop to them. But I used to be their whole world.
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