Today I Turn Fifty — and Suddenly I Realized a Bitter Truth.

Today, as I cross the threshold of half a century, a cruel truth has struck me like lightning, tightening around my heart. My daughter, Inés, lives in a small village near Salamanca and has built a large family: six children in a row, each born just a year or two apart. She married very young, still finishing her studies, taking exams with a baby in her arms. And I, her father, was always there to help, caring for the little ones. When they got sick, I was there—taking care of them, comforting them, staying up all night. Now, looking back, I realize the entire burden fell on me, while Inés kept having more children. And to be honest, I even used to be happy about it. I delighted in my role as a grandfather, watching my grandchildren grow, proud of every single milestone.

Life took a turn when, shortly after Inés got married, my wife left me. It was a harsh blow, but the birth of my first grandchild became my lifeline, pulling me out of the deep well of loneliness. Then came the second, the third, the fourth… Around the same time, I retired due to disability—born with one leg shorter than the other, and my health began to decline. I threw myself into the whirlwind of caregiving, forgetting that I, too, had a right to my own life, to my own dreams.

A few days ago, a flood of personal matters I had postponed for months came crashing down on me—because I had been entirely absorbed by the grandchildren. Exhausted but determined, I approached Inés and told her that I wanted to return to my home, to my small apartment on the outskirts, and that it was time for her to take care of her own children. But her response hit me like a whip:

—“Go home? I have a meeting with my friends and no one to leave the kids with. You’re not going anywhere! Stay here and watch them—you’ve got nothing better to do. Just listen to him, with his ‘important’ problems!”

I stood there frozen, as if struck by lightning. Her words echoed in my head, and inside I was boiling with resentment. Without saying a word, I turned and walked away. Let her handle it on her own for once! They’re her kids, not mine—it’s time she understands that.

That scene etched itself into my soul like a red-hot blade. And in a way, Inés is right: my life seems to have dissolved into the lives of her children. At home, I do nothing but clean and wash—an endless cycle of other people’s worries. I’ve put aside the books I once loved, stopped seeing my friends. How many times did I turn down invitations, using the grandkids as an excuse, until eventually they just stopped inviting me? And I could have reserved at least one day a month—just one damn day—to feel alive.

And so, five decades of my life have passed almost without me noticing. Fifty years. And what’s left? I feel like a shadow, living for others, dissolving into their needs. But I’ve made a decision: enough. No one is going to live my life for me. Yes, I love my grandchildren, and if they truly need help, I’ll be there. But now it’s time to think about myself—to breathe deeply, and stop drowning in someone else’s darkness.

I’ve thought it all through: I’ll call my old friends, the ones I used to go fishing with on the Tormes River. I’ll go back to taking long walks along the water. Maybe I’ll even return to my old hobby of carving wooden figures. I have passions, I have joys—small and great—that I buried beneath a mountain of obligations. I love those little ones with all my heart, but I also need to take care of myself. So that not one more day goes by in vain. So that I can finally see the light at the end of this tunnel.

Fifty is not the end—it’s the beginning. And I intend to prove it.