Taken from real life. “I raised my children and they left me”: Now they don't even have time for a phone call

I raised them myself.

I was sitting in the living room, listening to the silence that filled my house.

It was the middle of winter, snow was falling outside the window, and I I stared at the phone, which was silent as usual. Another day, another week, another month had passed without a message from my children.

I raised them alone.

When their father left without looking back, I had to be everything to them. I was a mother, a father, a teacher, a nurse, a cook. I devoted my entire life to them.

— Mom, will you stay with me tonight? — my daughter once asked when she was afraid of a storm.

— Mom, can you help me prepare my presentation for school? — my son asked when he was nervous about giving a speech.

— Mom, what would I do without you — he sighed when I saved him from yet another tight spot.

I was always there.

When they were sick, I stayed by their bedside. When their hearts were broken, I hugged them and told them everything would be okay. When they made mistakes, I was the only one who didn’t judge them.

And then they grew up.

And suddenly I wasn’t needed anymore.

First there were short excuses.

— Mom, I'm sorry, but I have an important meeting today, I can't talk.

— Mom, I'll call you later, okay?

But later never came.

Later came oblivion.

A holiday spent alone. A birthday without a phone call to wish you.

With each subsequent conversation I felt like I was becoming more and more of a stranger.

— Mom, don't be so dramatic — my daughter once said when I asked why they hadn’t visited me in months.

I wasn’t being dramatic.

I was just waiting.

That evening, as I stared at the silent phone again, it dawned on me that they weren’t going to call again.

Not because they couldn’t.

Because they didn’t want to.

I went out onto the balcony, wrapped myself in a warm shawl, and looked at the lights in the neighboring windows. In some houses there was life going on – laughter, conversations, shadows of people bustling around kitchens.

I used to be the same.

Now all I had were memories.

And the quiet, painful awareness that for my children I had become someone who was remembered only when something was needed.

And I didn't want to be a chore.

I wanted to be a mother.

But I guess I wasn't one anymore.

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