Abandoned in my Forties

The empty rooms echoed with silent memories. I had lived in the same townhouse since the age of eight but now it had been cleared of all trace of us.

Each step triggered countless memories: from the hushed midnight feasts I’d shared with friends in my bedroom to the bustling Sunday lunches in the dining room below.

As I pulled the front door behind me for the final time, my eyes grew misty, and a lump stuck in my throat. The home was well and truly empty, but I was the abandoned party; it was my parents who had chosen to leave.

They had sold up and emigrated to France.

Initially I’d been all for it, delighted that they were realising their dreams. But despite being a grown women with a life of my own, feelings of abandonment bobbed to the surface as I strode about the empty family home the day after their departure.

First came the tears – a feeling of loss, bereavement almost. How could they leave me like that? How would any new life be ‘better’ without me and my sister and their grandchildren in it?

At the same time, I felt guilty; I was behaving like a spoilt not-so-grown-up brat. How could I be so selfish?

But the truth is, just as mothers and fathers struggle to come to terms with their children moving out and onwards without them, grown-up children experience similar feelings of desertion when their parents do the same.

We’ve never been a family who lived in each other's pockets - but that didn't stop us being close. Ironically, I feel one of the main qualities my parents taught me was independence, how to stand on my own two feet from a young age.

I left our home at just 17 without so much as a backward glance. I was working as a chemist dispenser and moved into rented accommodation with my older sister. Neither parent made a fuss. There were no ceremonious tears from either party but that’s not to say they were no longer there for me – they were, but in the background.

This meant there weren’t the unwelcome interferences many parents are guilty of – even when, years later, my marriage collapsed, and I found myself a single full-time working mother of two young boys. Though I had to rely more heavily on my parents again, there were no lectures or ‘words of advice’; they just quietly got stuck in – becoming trusted confidantes to the children.

Sunday breakfast together became a much-loved ritual. We all piled round to theirs and Mum served her speciality 'Full English'. Afterwards the boys would dash out to play in the garden whilst we enjoyed a cup of tea and washed the pots.

It was as I got back on my feet that my parents’ talk of future plans started to crop up.

‘We’re retiring to France,’ Dad would say. ‘Warm weather, beautiful scenery and lots of wine!’

They hadn’t travelled much in their lives, but they wanted to enjoy their retirement in a beautiful setting, somewhere that wasn’t too far for us all to visit.

As their dream turned into reality, my initial response was of encouragement. I was proud - my parents were refusing to wither away within the shadows of familiarity. They were proof you’re never too old for change and excitement.

It took six months for my parents to sell up. As the plans began to be finalised, worries appeared. When I spoke with my sister, she felt the same; ‘What if they can’t manage the language barrier?’ ‘Or if one of them falls ill and we’re not there to help?’

But time marched on and eventually my parents bought a battered transit van and loaded it with their cherry-picked belongings. My dad gave me a brusque pat on the back and scuttled away, in his usual way that only highlighted the emotions he was trying to conceal. Mum, on the other hand, squeezed me tightly, her eyes glassy.

I wanted to say thanks for everything before they limped off into the distance, but it sounded too final. I couldn’t even bring myself to utter: ‘goodbye’.

And then they were gone. Just as I'd reached an age where I relished my parents' company for who they were as people, not parents, they had decided to become independent and leave. No more Sunday breakfasts. No more unexpected chats when we bumped into one another in the village. No more shrieks of joy from the boys at an unplanned visit from Grandma and Pops.

Within days they were settling into a charming stone farmhouse amid patchwork fields leading to deep green forest. But back in England, I felt isolated, and I am ashamed to admit - a little angry too. Not having my parents around for support, and them not being part of my children's daily lives felt cruel.

And what’s worse, in those early days, they didn’t even have mobile phone reception or a working internet. I couldn't just ring them whenever I wanted or send a quick email or photos of the children's achievements.

Photo Courtesy of Shuttlecock

Stubbornly when their internet was up and running and communication was restored through Facetime, I would deliberately neglect to call them, wanting to make my point: make them feel my loss as keenly as I did theirs, I suppose.

It was confusing because I’d always thought of myself as a settled, independent person. Why did I suddenly feel so vulnerable without them?

Apparently, this is a recognised response to this kind of ‘abandonment’, to use a strong word.

Psychotherapist David Heron says that as adults we think we can cope without our parents, but we don’t realise that our subsequent security is based on their remaining available.

He says: ‘When that availability is taken away, it creates anxiety and concern for the “abandoned” adult.’

He also explains that it is a type of bereavement but that the grief is complicated by feelings of rejection and betrayal - hence my anger.

My fit of pique was intensified when a friend thoughtlessly declared: ‘My parents would never leave me’. At the time I defended my parents' choice to go, but I couldn’t get that line out of my head. They had left me; she was right about that.

It wasn’t until my children and I, visited them two months after they’d left that I understood how hard the decision to move must have been for them. It was whilst I was sitting in the garden enjoying the picture-postcard view that my dad gently took my hand and said, 'You do know that we would never have left if we hadn't been sure that both you and your sister were going to be okay?'

Acceptance dawned and I was glad again that they'd chosen to go.

One evening we were having a glass of wine and all cooking dinner when Frank Sinatra started up on the radio. Suddenly Dad grabbed Mum by the waist, and they started swaying together.

‘Ugh, you two!’ we all laughed but it was almost as if their adventures had made them fall in love again.

Photo Courtesy of Shuttlecock

That was ten years ago now. There are still times my sister and I worry about the future. About how our parents will cope alone as they grow older. And no amount of Zoom calls can replace the reassurance of a hug or a kiss. But France has been good for them in many ways; I believe their health has benefitted from the warmer climate; they have a wider genre of friends, and a greater sense of adventure.

And the time we do spend together is all the more precious for the distance.

#Emigrate #France #Parents