My spouse Jason and I dedicated our entire life to our children.
We sacrificed so that they could have more. We wore old clothes so they could get new ones. We missed meals, postponed goals, and worked hard to make them a reality. We never wanted anything more than for them to be happy, successful, and loved as children.
But now, in our old age, when our bodies hurt and our hearts are fatigued, we find ourselves in a house filled with stillness. No laughs. There are no knocks at the door. Only pain and stillness. Jason has left, and I am sitting here alone, listening to the walls resound with memories.
I stopped locking the door. Not because I was predicting anyone — but because I was simply too tired. Tired of waiting. Tired of hoping. Tired of being forgotten.
Then, one day, something unexpected occured.
A knock. I opened the door to see a young woman, maybe in her early twenties, curly hair, unsure eyes. She looked lost.
“Sorry, wrong flat,” she said. But something in me approached.
