It's easy - almost instinctive - to believe that expectations belong to the world of contracts, paychecks, and professional obligations. We tell ourselves it is normal to demand results from an employer, to hold them accountable for promises made, to feel entitled to rewards in exchange for our efforts. That, we say, is justified. That is fair. But does the same rule apply to parenthood?
What about the mother who bleeds her youth into sleepless nights and endless sacrifices? What about the father who trades his own comfort for stability, his own dreams for his children's future? Do they not earn, if not the right, then at least the dignity of expectation?
To expect that the children they nurtured with trembling patience and relentless love will one day love them back - not out of duty, but out of choice. To expect that in the fragility of old age, when the body begins to betray and the mind slows down, their children will still want them in their lives.
To expect to be held in high regard, if only because their very existence was not an accident but a decision - a choice their parents made to bring them into this world, knowing full well the weight of responsibility that came with it.
Is it too much to ask that when the wrinkles deepen and the energy wanes, those very children will take care of their needs and wants, the way their parents once did for them? Is it unreasonable to hope for a few stolen minutes of genuine conversation amidst the chaos of their busy schedules, commitments, and distractions?
Is it selfish to wish for a simple call, a visit, a moment of shared laughter, a word of respect that doesn't sound perfunctory but alive - alive enough to make a parent feel seen, valued, not invisible in the autumn of life?
And yet, the cruel question lingers: is that really asking for too much? Because when those expectations aren't met, when silence replaces presence, when excuses replace affection, it doesn't just bruise the heart - it rips it apart.
The same heart that once swelled with pride at every milestone, that once beat faster at every fever, that once carried the unshakable belief that this bond was eternal, suddenly feels like a foolish child itself, left standing at the doorway of love, waiting for someone who has forgotten to return.
Perhaps this is the tragedy of parenthood - the paradox of giving everything selflessly, while secretly, quietly, desperately hoping that someday, something will come back. A thank you. A touch. A glance that says I still need you.
And when it doesn't… when all that love is met with absence, indifference, or worse, neglect - it is not just expectation that shatters. It is the very soul of the parent, left asking the most haunting question of all: Was it all for nothing?
Such thoughts don't just arrive gently at my doorstep - they storm in, uninvited, tearing through the fragile walls of my sanity. They have been feeding on me for years now, gnawing at the very marrow of my being, until even silence feels heavy with accusation.
They say an idle mind is the devil's playground. But mine? Mine has become a battlefield, a graveyard, and a confessional all at once. My disturbed, depressed conscience conspires with grief, raising questions so piercing, so unrelenting, that they echo in my skull long after midnight: Where did I go wrong? Was it in the way I loved him? Or was it in the way I expected him to love me back?