“Years of Hard Work Abroad: I Bought Homes for My Three Children, But They Won’t Let Me Stay”

I left the United States when I was 30 years old, leaving behind my three young children and my aging parents. The job opportunities in my hometown were scarce, and the pay was barely enough to make ends meet. So, when I got an offer to work as a nurse in a well-paying position in the Middle East, I took it without hesitation. It was a tough decision, but I knew it was the only way to provide a better future for my family.

For over two decades, I worked tirelessly in a foreign land. The work was demanding, and the hours were long. I missed countless birthdays, holidays, and milestones in my children’s lives. Every night, I would look at their pictures and remind myself that all this sacrifice was for them. I sent money home regularly, ensuring they had everything they needed – from school supplies to medical care.

As the years went by, I managed to save enough money to buy each of my three children a home. It was my way of ensuring they had a secure future. I thought that by providing them with such a significant gift, they would understand the depth of my love and sacrifice.

However, as time passed, it became increasingly difficult for me to continue working. My body was no longer as strong as it used to be, and the physical demands of my job took a toll on my health. I decided it was time to return home and spend my remaining years with my family.

When I finally returned to the United States, I was filled with hope and excitement. I imagined reuniting with my children and grandchildren, sharing stories of my experiences abroad, and finally being able to rest. But reality hit me hard.

My eldest son, John, had moved into his new home with his wife and children. When I asked if I could stay with them for a while until I found a place of my own, he hesitated. “Mom, we don’t have enough space,” he said. “Maybe you can stay with Sarah.”

Sarah, my middle child, had always been the most independent. She had a successful career and lived in a beautiful house. But when I approached her, she too made excuses. “Mom, I’m really busy with work right now,” she said. “I don’t think it’s a good time.”

My youngest daughter, Emily, was my last hope. She had always been the most affectionate and understanding. But even she turned me away. “Mom, I’m sorry,” she said. “But we have our own lives now.”

I was devastated. After all those years of hard work and sacrifice, my own children wouldn’t let me stay with them. I felt like a stranger in my own family. The homes I had bought for them were meant to be symbols of my love and dedication, but they had become barriers that kept me out.

With nowhere else to go, I ended up staying in a small motel on the outskirts of town. The room was cramped and lonely, a stark contrast to the dreams I had nurtured for so long. Every night, I lay awake wondering where I went wrong. Had I been too focused on providing material things that I neglected the emotional bonds with my children?

As the days turned into weeks, and weeks into months, I realized that the years spent apart had created an unbridgeable gap between us. My children had grown up without me, and in their eyes, I was more of a benefactor than a mother.

I still send them messages and try to stay in touch, but the responses are few and far between. The pain of rejection is something I’ll carry with me for the rest of my life. My story doesn’t have a happy ending, but it’s a reminder that sometimes, despite our best intentions and sacrifices, things don’t always turn out the way we hope.