Story:
I’m a 68-year-old father. I raised my son alone after my wife passed when he was 6. I worked three jobs—janitor by day, cab driver by night, and dishwasher on weekends—just to pay his tuition and make sure he never felt poor.
I skipped meals so he could eat. I missed sleep so he could sleep peacefully in a warm bed. I sold my wedding ring to buy him his first laptop.
He graduated from an Ivy League school. Got a great job. Bought a big house. I was so proud.
But last year, I fell sick—arthritis, high blood pressure, early signs of dementia. I couldn’t drive anymore. I asked if I could move in with him, just until I got better. He agreed… for 3 months.
Then one day, he said:
“Dad, I love you, but I can’t take care of you. You’re slowing down my life. I’ll pay for a nice nursing home.”
That “nice” place is cold. Sterile. No one visits me.
My son sends money every month but hasn’t come to see me in 9 months.
Last week I saw him on TV—he donated $50,000 to an animal shelter. He never even bought me a birthday cake.
I’m not angry. Just… broken. I gave him everything. And now I sit in a room staring at the wall, wondering if I mattered at all.
