I’m 83 years old, and for most of my life I believed I understood loneliness. But nothing prepared me for the emptiness my own sons created when they decided I wasn’t worth their time. When they finally came back for my inheritance, they discovered I’d made a choice that would haunt them forever.My name is Mabel, and I raised two boys who grew up to forget I existed.Trenton and Miles were good kids, or at least I used to tell myself that on the nights when sleep wouldn’t come and memories were all I had left. Somewhere between childhood and adulthood, I became background noise in their increasingly important lives.
I tried everything to stay connected. You do that when you’re a mother. You keep trying even when your heart is breaking.I baked their favorite chocolate chip cookies and mailed them across the country in carefully wrapped packages. I sent letters on holidays and called on birthdays. I showed up at graduation with flowers and a smile that hid how much it hurt when they barely looked up from their phones.
