Monica was a respected pediatrician with her own clinic. Sebastian had achieved the impossible and made a living from his art, selling paintings to collectors and galleries. Gabriela was an architect at a prestigious firm, designing important commercial buildings. The four of them had achieved what Carmen and Fernando never had: professional success, financial stability, social respect, and all thanks to their parents’ endless sacrifices. Or at least that’s what Carmen and Fernando believed. The reality, as they would discover in the most painful way possible, was very different.
The children’s visits began to become less frequent. At first, it was understandable. They had demanding jobs, their own families, and other responsibilities. Daniel had married a woman named Lorena, a marketing executive from a wealthy family. They had two children, Matías and Valentina. Beautiful children whom Carmen and Fernando adored, but whom they rarely saw. Lorena had never been particularly warm toward Carmen and Fernando. She regarded them with a kind of barely concealed disdain, as if she considered them inferior because of their humble origins.
“I don’t understand why we have to visit them so often,” Lorena would say to Daniel when he suggested going to see his parents. “They live in that small, old house. It smells strange, and honestly, it makes me uncomfortable. Besides, your parents are always trying to give us food that we clearly can’t afford because it’s full of carbs and fat. They don’t understand that we have to watch our figures.” Daniel, who had once been the most devoted son, began to echo his wife’s opinions.
The visits, which used to be weekly, became monthly, then bimonthly, then occasional. When they visited, Lorena spent the entire time on her phone, clearly bored, sighing heavily whenever Carmen tried to talk to her. The children, Matías and Valentina, were so used to expensive toys and technology that they didn’t know what to do in their grandparents’ simple house. Mónica had married Rodrigo, a successful lawyer. They didn’t have children because, according to Mónica, her career was too important to put on hold for motherhood.
Monica had changed a lot since becoming a doctor. She was no longer the strong-willed but loving girl Carmen remembered. Now she was a sophisticated woman who drove an imported German car. She lived in a penthouse in the best neighborhood in the city and wore designer clothes that cost more than Carmen and Fernando earned in a year. “Mom, why do you still live in this house?” Monica would ask every time she visited, looking around with obvious disapproval.
It’s old, it’s run down. The neighborhood isn’t what it used to be. They should move to something smaller and more modern, a senior living apartment or something like that. Carmen tried to explain that this house was their home, that every corner held a precious memory, that they had raised their four children there, that they had built their life together there. But Mónica simply didn’t understand, or didn’t want to understand. For her, the house was just an old property occupying valuable land.
Sebastian, the contemplative artist, had married a woman named Natalia, also an artist. They had no children and lived a bohemian life in a spacious apartment filled with paintings and sculptures. Sebastian visited a little more often than his siblings, but his visits were always brief and seemed more of a duty than a genuine desire to spend time with his parents. He was always preoccupied with his next exhibition, his next sale, his next commission. “Dad, Mom,” Sebastian would say with a smile that never reached his eyes.
They have to understand that my artistic career demands my full attention. It’s a competitive world. I can’t get distracted or I’ll fall behind, but I keep them in mind. I always did. Carmen wondered how she could keep them in mind when months went by without her calling, when her brief visits lasted less than an hour, when she never asked how they really were, how they felt, if they needed anything. Gabriela, the youngest, had always been the sweetest of the four, but she too changed after her professional success.
She married an architect even more successful than herself, a man named Eduardo who came from a family of noble lineage. Eduardo had never hidden his disdain for his wife’s humble origins. He tolerated Carmen and Fernando with barely any courtesy, clearly considering them a stain on his perfect upper-class life. “Gabriela, your parents are calling again,” Eduardo would say with obvious annoyance. “Can you tell them we’re busy? We have that dinner with the investors and we don’t have time for their drama.” And Gabriela, sweet Gabriela, who had once been the most affectionate girl in the world, began to make excuses.
She was busy with an important project. She had a meeting she couldn’t cancel. She was traveling for work. There was always something more important than visiting her parents. Carmen began to notice the change first. She was a mother, and mothers feel these things in their bones. She noticed how the phone calls became shorter and shorter, how her children always seemed in a hurry to hang up. She noticed how the visits became less and less frequent. She noticed how her children no longer asked how they were, how they felt, if they needed anything.
“Have you noticed that the children hardly ever come to see us anymore?” Fernando asked Carmen one night as they lay in their old bed. Of course he had noticed. He had also noticed how his children looked at their house with shame, how his sons-in-law and daughter-in-law treated them with barely concealed condescension, how his grandchildren were being raised to maintain emotional distance from their impoverished grandparents. “They have their own lives, Carmen,” Fernando replied, though his voice lacked conviction.
They’re successful adults with important responsibilities. It’s normal that they’re busy. “No,” Carmen said, her voice breaking. “This is different. I had parents too, and even though I was busy raising our children and working, I always found time for them. I always visited them, always called them, always kept in touch. This—this is abandonment, Fernando. Our children are slowly abandoning us.” Fernando hugged Carmen as she wept quietly. He felt the pain too, but what could they do? They had given everything for their children.
They had sacrificed their youth, their health, their very dreams. And for what? To be forgotten. Now that they were no longer useful, things took a turn for the worse when Fernando suffered a minor stroke. It was a Sunday morning. He was peacefully having breakfast when he suddenly felt a numbness on the left side of his body. Carmen saw him and knew immediately that something was terribly wrong. She called an ambulance and went with him to the hospital, holding his hand the whole way, whispering that everything would be all right, even though she herself was terrified.
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