When grown-up children will appreciate their parents: Maupassant's precise answer

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None of us enjoy working hard and not seeing tangible results. We crave recognition, for our efforts to be seen, for the fruits of our labor to be visible. Imagine then what it must be like for parents who have put all their energy into raising their children, only to find themselves alone in their later years, their sacrifices seemingly unnoticed.

I know a woman who lives in this reality. She spends her days reflecting on her past, trying to determine where she might have gone wrong. And yet, every memory convinces her that she was a devoted mother. She woke up at dawn and cooked so that her children would have good food when they returned from school. She sacrificed her own desires, her own dreams, so that her children would have the best she could offer. She even took them to the seaside every summer, hoping that the sun and salt water would strengthen their bodies for the coming winter.

Isn't she asking too much?

She gave up her personal life, although there were admirers who sought her company. Every ruble she saved was spent on the well-being of her children, not on her own comfort or vanity. And now, in the quiet of her home, she wonders why they don’t have time to call her, to check in, just to ask how she’s doing.

She is not bitter, she does not complain. Her health is good, and her spirit is strong. But she longs for at least a fraction of the attention she once gave them so generously. Is she asking too much?

Parents don't need big gestures; often they don't even need a "thank you." What they crave is just a small sign of caring, a simple acknowledgement of their existence.

The eternal struggle between parents and children is as old as time itself. It often seems that children do not fully understand the depth of their parents' love and sacrifice until they themselves reach old age, until they too are faced with the loneliness that comes with it.

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One life story

I recall a famous film director who shared a story from his youth. For most of his life, he resented his mother. She pressured him to excel in school, focusing on his studies rather than playing outside with his friends. Later, she disapproved of his first love, calling her a “chicken in the street.” Her constant interference irritated him, her advice was unwanted and often ignored. He felt depressed, embarrassed by her in front of others, and eventually did everything in his power to distance himself from her.

He moved far away, ignored her calls, and rejoiced in his newfound independence. But when his mother finally gave in and walked out of his life, a strange emptiness settled in him. He sought freedom, but instead found loneliness. Only then did he realize that no one on earth had ever loved him as much as his mother. The very attention he once despised was the greatest act of love he had ever known.

As Guy de Maupassant once wrote, “We love our mothers almost without thinking about it, and we do not realize the depth of this love until we are separated forever.”

The tragic truth is that we often take our parents' love for granted until it's too late. In our quest for independence, we overlook the simple acts of caring that once irritated us, forgetting that they were expressions of love we may never experience again.

I'm afraid of one thing... to come home one day and say: "I'm home, Mom!"... and hear silence in response...

Let this serve as a reminder: take the time to connect with your parents, to show them that their sacrifices were not in vain. A small gesture of love and attention can mean a lot to them. And one day, you may find that it means a lot to you, too.

Here is a wonderful poem, “Mama”:

When my mother sits quietly on the edge

my bed, taking off my wet boots from my feet,

comes from lips that are sad but not reproachful,

a deadly tender question: “What’s wrong with you, son?”

***

You can't even squeeze an answer out of your son with tenderness.

I'm ready to fall into hell somewhere,

I mumble stupidly: “Everything is fine... And by the way, you look great...”

according to the false laws of a cowardly filial game.

***

Do I really have nothing to say?

pulling me, involuntarily bending into an arc?

I hide in the words: "Calm down. Don't be nervous..."

I have something to say, but I feel sorry for her – I can’t.

***

The boundary between us is invisibly filled with tears,

but not to cross the line of alienation.

It's unthinkable to put it on my mother's shoulders

everything that I can barely hold on to on my own.

***

There are accidental fathers, but mothers are always real.

Nothing in the world can replace her,

and the mother coming to visit, then leaving -

already the crime of her cruel son.

***

When we grow old, then with belated remorse

we come to our mothers on the mounds of damp earth

and then we tell our mothers, without hiding anything,

everything that we were unable to say during our lifetime...

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