We sometimes spend the majority of our young lives taking care of our children and making sure they have everything they need in life. It’s a worthwhile endeavor, but it can also come back to be heartbreaking as well.

The woman in the following story discovered this for herself after giving her all to her children, and then suddenly, she found herself alone and lonely in her old age. There wasn’t much she could do about it but something would happen that would change things for her.

This is a story that gives hope and can really help you to get through some dark times.

All our lives, we lived for the kids. Not for ourselves, not for success—just for them, our darling three, whom we cherished, spoiled, and sacrificed everything for. Who would have thought that at the end of the road, when health falters and strength fades, we’d be left with nothing but silence and heartache instead of gratitude and care?

John 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 modest; money was tight. A few months later, I found out I was pregnant. John dropped out of university and took on two jobs—anything to put food on the table.

We lived poorly. Sometimes we ate nothing but baked potatoes for days, but we never complained. We knew why we did it. We dreamed our children would never know the pinch of poverty we’d endured. And when things stabilised slightly, I got pregnant again. It was terrifying, but we didn’t hesitate—of course we’d raise this baby too. Blood’s thicker than water, after all.

We had no help back then. No one to babysit, no family to lean on. My mother had passed young, and John’s mum lived miles away, too wrapped up in her own world. I lived between the kitchen and the nursery, while John worked himself to the bone, coming home late with tired eyes and chapped hands from the cold.

By thirty, I had our third. Hard? Absolutely. But we never expected life to be easy. We weren’t the sort to coast. We just kept plodding on. Through loans, through exhaustion, we somehow managed to buy flats for two of them. How many sleepless nights it cost us—only heaven knows. Our youngest dreamed of becoming a doctor, so we scraped together every penny and sent her abroad. We took out yet another loan and told ourselves, “We’ll manage.”

Years flew by like a sped-up film reel. The kids grew up, spread their wings. They had their own lives. And then, suddenly, old age hit—not gently, but like a freight train, with John’s diagnosis. He grew weaker, fading before my eyes. I cared for him alone. No calls, no visits.