Everything fell apart! My son and daughter rejected marriage and children!
Hello, my name is Edward, and I want to share my story—one weighed down by sorrow and disappointment. This is the tale of how my children, my pride, suddenly turned their backs on everything I held dear. It didn’t happen long ago, yet for me, it feels like an eternity filled with unanswered questions.
Once, I was a young father full of hope. My wife, God rest her soul, and I lived in a quiet village near York. We raised two children—my son, William, and my daughter, Sophie. I worked at a factory; she kept our home. We dreamed of the day our children would start families of their own, giving us grandchildren. I imagined sitting in the garden, rocking a pram, listening to little ones laugh. That dream warmed my heart for years.
William and Sophie grew up so different, yet I loved them equally. William was stubborn but kind-hearted—always ready to help. At school, he was the ringleader, then left to study at university in London. I was so proud—my heir, the one to carry on our name. Sophie was quiet and dreamy, lost in books and sketches. I was certain she’d be a devoted mother, just like her mum. We poured everything into them—love, time, every last pound—to give them a proper education and a fair chance at life.
But as years passed, my dreams began to crumble. William finished his studies, landed a job in the city—some managerial role at a firm. He’d call, chat about his life, but never mention girls or settling down. I’d ask, “Son, when will you bring home a wife?” He’d brush me off: “Dad, don’t start—it’s not for me.” I told myself he was young, figuring things out, waiting for the right one.
Sophie left, too—off to Edinburgh for art school. I admired her talent, but her calls grew fewer, her tone colder. She spoke of galleries and friends, never love or children. I’d hint, “Soph, don’t you want a family someday?” She’d laugh: “Dad, that’s not me.”
The day everything collapsed
It all changed one wretched evening. I invited them home to York for my birthday, hoping to gather around the table like old times. They came—William with weary eyes, Sophie distant. We ate, drank tea, reminisced. Then I asked outright: “Tell me honestly—when will I meet my grandchildren?”
Silence. Heavy enough to hear my own heartbeat. William leaned back in his chair. “Dad, I’m sorry, but I won’t marry. And I don’t want kids.” I froze, certain I’d misheard. Then Sophie added, soft but firm: “Me neither, Dad. It’s not for us.”
My world shattered. I stared at them—my children, whom I’d raised, taught to live—and saw strangers. William rambled about freedom, how marriage was a cage, children a burden. “Why would I want that, Dad? I’d rather travel, focus on work. The world’s got enough problems,” he said, like a knife to my chest. Sophie agreed: “I don’t see myself as a mother. My art is my child. Why would I need more?”
I argued: “But family is happiness! It’s our legacy! Who’ll care for you when you’re old?” William shrugged. “Don’t worry, Dad, I’ll save up for a carer.” Sophie said, “I’ll paint till my last breath.”
My tears and their indifference
I broke down, weeping at the table—not from anger, but pure grief. I’d worked my whole life to give them better, dreamed of seeing them build homes of their own, and now they looked at me like a stranger. William clapped my shoulder. “Don’t be dramatic, Dad. It’s our choice.” Sophie hugged me, but it felt cold as a Scottish wind.
Since then, I’ve carried this wound. They left—William to London, Sophie to Edinburgh—while I stayed in our empty house. Evenings, I stare at old photos and wonder: Where did I go wrong? Did I spoil them? Fail to teach them family’s worth? Or is this just how the world is now—ruthless, where marriage and children mean nothing?
They call sometimes—short, polite, like ticking a box. William boasts of a new car, Sophie of some exhibition. I stay quiet, afraid to ask again and hear that same cold reply. My mates say, “Ed, let it go. They’ve their own lives.” But how? When all I built feels wasted?
What do I do?
Nights, I stare at the ceiling and see nothing—no laughter, no tiny footsteps, no hope. My children chose freedom, leaving me to bear the weight alone. William once said marriage is losing yourself; Sophie wrote that children would steal her inspiration. I don’t know how to live with that.
I used to think they just hadn’t found love, that time would set things right. Now I see it’s no accident—it’s their choice, hard as stone. They want neither wife nor child, and I, an old father, can’t change it. My soul screams with the hurt, but they don’t hear.
I still love them—William with his stubbornness, Sophie with her dreams. But their choice crushed mine, and I don’t know how to piece myself back together. Maybe I failed to show them how beautiful family can be. Or perhaps the world’s moved on, and I’m stuck in the past. Tell me—how do I accept their path when it’s so far from mine?
