I remember when my husband had a health scare. We called each child. Only one picked up. She asked, “Is it serious?” We said no. We always say no. (2 of 3)

And it worked.

Our children had what we never did. Fresh notebooks each September. Piano lessons. Tutors. Birthday parties with cake and friends and noisy laughter. We poured ourselves into making their world safe, rich, and full of possibility — and we asked for nothing in return.

For years, life was a blur of school runs, lost socks, and late-night talks over cold coffee. We rarely had time to just be together. But we believed in the long game. We told ourselves, “One day, when they’re grown and settled, they’ll remember this. They’ll come home. They’ll bring the kids. They’ll laugh around our table.”

But that day never came.

They grew up. Moved away. Built big lives filled with milestones we only hear about in passing. We were proud, of course. Proud and hopeful. But the calls got fewer. The visits even more so.

At first, the excuses sounded reasonable. “This weekend’s packed.” “We’ll come next month.” “Work’s been wild.” But then… the silence came. Birthdays missed. Anniversaries forgotten. Conversations became short texts or forwarded jokes. Holidays turned into digital gift cards and empty chairs.

We told ourselves it was a phase.

“They’re busy. Young families are like that.” But deep down, we knew. We were no longer in their orbit. We were the ones making space for them their whole lives — and now, there’s no space left for us.

Our home, once bursting with noise and mess and motion, is quiet now. Not peaceful — hollow. The kind of silence that settles into your bones.

There’s no need for big meals anymore. The dining table gathers dust. On birthdays, we buy a tiny cake, light two candles, and sing to each other with smiles that don’t quite reach our eyes.

We scroll through old photo albums more than we talk on the phone. Because those images, faded as they are, still speak to us louder than our children do.