All our lives, everything was for the kids. We sacrificed endlessly — scraped knees, bedtime stories, handmade Halloween costumes — never imagining we’d be repaid with silence. John and I were childhood sweethearts. We married young and struggled through poverty, raising three children with no help. We never hesitated, even when things were hard. When our youngest, Emily, wanted to study medicine abroad, we sold nearly everything to make it happen.
Then the house grew quiet. The kids moved on. And old age crept in. When John fell ill, I became his sole caregiver. I begged our children to visit. Sophie said she was busy with her own kids. James posted vacation photos while claiming he was swamped. Emily sent a text: “Can’t leave during exams.” None of them came. I sat by John’s bedside alone until the end. “You did good, Nora,” he whispered before he passed. No one else came to say goodbye. Just me — and the hospice nurse who cried harder than our children did.
