All our lives, Jason and I lived for our children. We sacrificed everything—comfort, ambition, health—so they could thrive. Three kids we loved with all our hearts. We asked for nothing in return.

But when old age and illness came, we were met not with love—but silence.

Jason’s health declined, and I cared for him alone. No visits. No calls. When I reached out, our eldest said, “I have my own family.” Our son was on vacation. Our youngest, the doctor we helped educate, texted, “Can’t make it. Exams.”

I sat beside Jason, holding his hand through the pain, whispering memories. He passed on a spring morning, and not one child came. Just a voicemail from our son, days later.

Now I sit alone, clinging to old drawings and glittery cards from when they were young—when they still needed us. I wonder where we went wrong. We taught them to succeed—but did we forget to teach them to return?

Love, I thought, was a circle.

Maybe it’s not.

Maybe it’s giving everything… and being okay with receiving nothing back.

Still, each night, I pour two cups of tea. One for Jason. One for love.

Because some echoes are worth waiting for.