We Sacrificed Everything for Our Kids: Do I Deserve This Disrespect?

“I’m not coming home for Thanksgiving this year. I’ll be in Aspen with friends.”

The words echoed in my ear as I stared at the chipped tiles on our kitchen floor, phone pressed to my cheek. My eldest, Emily, didn’t even sound apologetic. She spoke quickly, like she had somewhere else to be — someone else to be with. I swallowed hard, glanced at my husband Mark nursing his coffee, and tried to keep my voice steady. “But honey, we always—”

She cut me off. “I know, Mom. But I’m twenty-four now. I have my own life. I can’t just drop everything every time you want me to.”

She hung up before I could respond. I set the phone down, my hand trembling. The kitchen felt colder than ever, the hum of the old refrigerator suddenly deafening. Mark caught my eye. “Emily?” he asked, searching my face for hope. I shook my head.

“They grow up, Linda,” he said, his voice gentle but resigned. “Doesn’t mean they stop being ours,” I whispered back, wiping my eyes.

We’d moved to this little house outside Dayton in 1999, just after Emily was born. It was all we could afford when the auto plant laid Mark off and I picked up double shifts at the bakery. We patched the roof ourselves, refinished the floors, and made do with what we had. We cut every corner — no cable, thrift shop clothes, off-brand cereal. We told ourselves it was worth it, so our daughters could have what we never did: a shot at something better.

But as the years passed, the sacrifices grew heavier. Mark’s back gave out by the time Megan, our youngest, hit high school. I picked up more hours at the factory, my hands rough and cracked from the work. There were nights we’d collapse into bed without dinner, stomachs growling, because the girls needed new sneakers or band fees. We never complained. Not to them. Not out loud. After all, isn’t that what parents do?

I’ll never forget the day Megan got into Northwestern. She ran into the kitchen waving the acceptance letter, her face shining. Mark cried. I laughed until I cried, too. We cashed out the last of our savings for her deposit. Emily was already off at NYU, juggling classes and a part-time job at a coffee shop. I worried about how thin she sounded on the phone, but she always said she was fine.

Those college years were the hardest. The mortgage fell behind, the car broke down, but we kept sending money — just enough so they could eat, buy books, pay rent. I learned to fix a leaky pipe, Mark learned to cook beans fifteen different ways. Every time I felt like giving up, I thought, “Someday, they’ll understand.”

But now, the girls are out on their own. Emily works for a marketing firm in Manhattan, Megan’s an engineer in Chicago. They send birthday cards, sometimes a gift at Christmas. But calls are rare. Visits, even rarer. When they do come, it’s like they’re guests in a stranger’s house — polite, distant, checking their phones for messages from people I’ve never met.

Last winter, Megan brought her boyfriend, Tyler. He barely spoke to us all weekend, just scrolled TikTok and talked about his crypto investments. Megan snapped at me for asking if she was eating enough. “Mom, you have to stop acting like I’m a kid. I’m fine. We’re fine.”

After they left, I found her old soccer jersey in the laundry room. I pressed it to my face, breathing in the faded scent of grass and sweat. Mark sat beside me, silent, his hand on my shoulder.

I tried so hard to be a good mom. I went to every parent-teacher conference, every school play, every scraped knee and heartbreak. I held their secrets. I cheered at their graduations, even when I had to stand in the back because I couldn’t afford a ticket. I thought, “This is enough. This is love.”

But love, it seems, isn’t always enough to keep your children close.

The phone rings again. For a fleeting second, I hope it’s one of the girls. But it’s just the pharmacy reminding me to refill Mark’s prescription. I hang up, the ache in my chest growing heavier.

I keep replaying our last conversation. Did I say something wrong? Was I too needy, too controlling, not enough of a friend? I scroll through Facebook, seeing pictures of other families — smiling, arms around each other, Sunday dinners and vacations. I wonder what we did differently. Did we push them too hard? Did we make them feel guilty for the things we gave up?

Mark says it’s just how things are now. Kids move away, parents get left behind. “It’s progress,” he says, but I don’t feel any further along. The house feels emptier every year. The sacrifices echo in every empty room, every unopened letter, every holiday spent with just the two of us at the table.

Sometimes I want to call Emily and scream, “Don’t you remember? Don’t you know what we gave for you?” But I don’t. I just wait, hoping maybe next year will be different. Maybe they’ll come home. Maybe they’ll see us — not just as parents, but as people who loved them enough to give up everything.

I look out the window as the sun sets, painting the sky in gold and pink. Mark squeezes my hand, and I wonder aloud, “Did we do too much? Or not enough? When your children have everything, but you lose them anyway — what does it mean to be a good parent?”

What would you do if the people you loved most forgot what you sacrificed for them? Do any of us ever really get the thanks — or the connection — we’re hoping for?