We gave him everything. Every late-night shift, every sacrifice, every penny we could spare—it all went to him. His education, his future, his dreams. We never hesitated because that’s what parents do. We wanted him to have the life we never did.

And for a while, it felt worth it. The day he graduated, we stood by his side, beaming with pride. He thanked us, hugged us, told us he couldn’t have done it without us. I believed him. I believed that no matter how far he went in life, we would always be part of it.

But things changed.

Calls became less frequent. Texts started going unanswered. Invitations to family gatherings were met with excuses—he was busy, had work, had plans. And now? Now it feels like we’re just some distant obligation, an afterthought in the life we worked so hard to help him build.

And the worst part? He doesn’t even seem to care.

It wasn’t always like this. We were his world, or at least, we thought we were. He’d call us after his first big job interview to tell us how it went. He’d send pictures of his new apartment, asking for our thoughts on the furniture he’d picked out. He even invited us to dinner once in a while, making sure we knew how much he appreciated everything we’d done for him.

But now, it feels like he’s erased us from his life. Like we’re just some footnote in the grand story of his success. The man we worked so hard to help raise doesn’t even pick up the phone anymore.

I’ve tried everything. I’ve reached out, tried to set up family dinners, suggested we do something together like we used to. But every time, I get a half-hearted excuse. “I’m busy, Mom. I’ll call you soon.” That “soon” never comes.

The worst part is that it’s not just the distance. It’s the feeling of being forgotten. Of being thrown aside for whatever new life he’s building. We gave up so much for him. I stayed up late helping him with his school projects, staying up all night making sure he had everything he needed for the next day. His dad worked long hours to ensure we could pay for everything—from his school fees to the tutoring classes, the extra sports lessons, and the extracurriculars that would set him apart from the rest. We made countless sacrifices to give him every opportunity we never had.

I can still remember the day we moved him into his college dorm. I fought back tears, telling myself that he was going to do amazing things. He hugged me, kissed me on the cheek, and promised to stay in touch. I believed him then. I truly did.

But I don’t know what happened along the way. One day, he was the excited young man full of potential and gratitude. The next, he was a stranger who only seemed to care about his own life. Every time I tried to ask him about it, he brushed it off. “I’m just busy, Mom. You know how it is.”

And honestly? I don’t know how it is. I’ve never lived in a world where family didn’t come first. I’ve never been too busy to check in, to show I care. But maybe that’s the difference between us now. Maybe he’s learned that the world doesn’t revolve around family, and I… I haven’t learned that yet.

As the months passed, I found myself sinking into a kind of quiet sadness. I was happy for him—so proud of what he had accomplished—but I couldn’t shake the emptiness that came with the silence. The silence that screamed louder than any words ever could. I started to question everything. Was it worth it? Was everything we did for him, every sacrifice, really appreciated? Or was it all just something to be forgotten once he “made it?”

One evening, a couple of weeks ago, I was sitting alone in the living room when the phone rang. I didn’t recognize the number, but something told me it might be him. It had been weeks since I’d heard from him, and though I tried not to hope, a part of me still wanted it to be him—wanted to hear his voice again, even if just for a minute.

It wasn’t him. It was his girlfriend. She wanted to know if we were free for dinner sometime soon, as they had a “big announcement” to make. It hit me then—he wasn’t just moving on with his life, he was building a new one. And we weren’t part of it.