Everything has fallen apart! My son and daughter have rejected marriage and children!
Hello, my name is Nigel, and I want to share my story with you—a bitter tale full of pain and disappointment. It’s the story of how my children, my pride and joy, suddenly turned away from everything I believed gave life meaning. It all started not so long ago, yet to me, it feels like an eternity of worry and unanswered questions.
Once, I was a young father full of hope. My late wife and I lived in a small town near Nottingham. We raised two children—a son named James and a daughter named Emily. I worked at a factory, she kept the home, and we dreamed of the day our children would start families of their own and give us grandchildren. I pictured myself on the porch, rocking a pram, listening to children’s laughter. Those dreams kept me warm all my life.
James and Emily grew up so different, but I loved them equally. James was strong-willed yet kind, always ready to help. In school, he was the ringleader, and later, he left for university in London. I was so proud—I thought he’d carry on our name, build a family of his own. Emily, on the other hand, was quiet and dreamy. She loved reading, painting, and I was sure she’d become a loving mother, just like her mum. We gave them everything—love, time, every last penny for their education and a chance at a good life.
But as the years passed, my dreams began to crumble. James graduated, found work in the city—some managerial job at a firm. He called, talked about his life, but never mentioned women or settling down. I’d ask, “Son, when will you bring a wife home?” He’d wave me off: “Dad, don’t start. It’s not for me.” I thought he was just young, figuring himself out, hadn’t met the right one yet.
Emily left too—for Edinburgh, to study at an art academy. I admired her talent, but her calls grew less frequent, her voice colder. She spoke of exhibitions, friends, but never love or children. I’d hint, “Emily, shouldn’t you think about a family?” She’d laugh: “Dad, that’s not me.”
The day everything fell apart
Everything changed one wretched evening. I invited them both home to Nottingham for my birthday. Wanted the family together, a proper sit-down meal like the old days. They came—James with tired eyes, Emily distant. We ate, drank tea, reminisced. Then I dared to ask outright: “Tell me honestly, when will I see grandchildren?”
First, silence—so heavy I could hear my own heartbeat. James leaned back in his chair and said, “Dad, sorry, but I’m not getting married. Or having kids.” I froze, thinking I’d misheard. Then Emily added, quiet 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 didn’t recognise them. James started on about freedom, how marriage is chains, children a burden. “Why would I want that, Dad? I want to live for myself, travel, work. The world’s got enough problems already.” Each word cut like a knife. Emily agreed: “I don’t see myself as a mother. My art, my paintings—they’re my children. Why would I need more?”
I tried to reason: “But family is happiness, it’s our legacy! How can you live without children? Who’ll care for you when you’re old?” They just shrugged. James said, “Don’t worry, Dad, I’ll hire a carer,” and Emily added, “I’ll live in my studio till my last breath.”
Tears and indifference
I broke down—cried right there at the table. Not from anger, but pain. I’d worked my whole life to give them the best, dreamed of seeing them build their own families, and now they looked at me like a stranger. James patted my shoulder: “Dad, don’t be dramatic. It’s our choice.” Emily hugged me, but it was cold, like an Edinburgh wind.
Since then, I’ve lived with this wound. They left—James back to London, Emily to Edinburgh—and I’m alone in our old house. Evenings, I stare at their childhood photos and wonder: where did I go wrong? Did I spoil them too much? Fail to teach them the value of family? Or is this just the way the world is now—heartless, where marriage and children are seen as a burden?
Sometimes they call—short, polite, like an obligation. James brags about a new car, Emily about some exhibition. I stay quiet, afraid to ask again and hear that same cold reply. My mates say, “Nigel, let it go. They’ve got their own lives.” But how do you let go when everything you built feels wasted?
What do I do now?
Every night, I stare at the ceiling and see emptiness—no laughter, no pitter-patter of tiny feet, no hope. My children chose freedom, and I’m left to face their choice alone. James once said marriage would mean losing himself, Emily 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 yet, that time would set things right. Now I see it’s no accident—it’s their choice, solid as stone. They don’t want marriage or children, and I, an old father, am powerless to change it. My soul screams in pain, but they don’t hear.
I still love them—James with his stubbornness, Emily with her dreams. But their choice crushed mine, and I don’t know how to pick myself up. Maybe it’s my fault I never showed them how beautiful family can be. Or maybe the world’s changed, and I’m stuck in the past. Tell me, how do I accept their path when it’s so far from mine?