I sacrificed everything for my daughter’s happiness, but instead of gratitude, I received betrayal.
After my daughter’s wedding, she and her husband didn’t have a place of their own. Understanding how essential it was for the young couple to have their own space, I made a selfless decision. I moved out of my cozy two-bedroom house in a quaint village near York and relocated to my mother’s home, handing over everything I owned to my daughter and her husband. I willingly gave up my own comfort so she could start afresh. I thought she would appreciate this gift.
I’d raised her single-handedly after her father passed away, leaving me with an eight-year-old girl to care for. It was tough, but I had no choice; I had to raise her on my own. Throughout those difficult years, my mother was my guardian angel. Without her, I would have been lost in the solitude and never-ending responsibilities. We persevered, year after year. My daughter grew up, graduated from university in London, and met her love, Richard. The wedding day came — a joyous occasion for all of us.
At first, I considered moving my mum in with me and giving the young couple her small one-bedroom flat, but then I changed my mind. My two-bedroom home was more spacious, brighter, and cozier — the better start for them, I thought. I handed it over with an open heart, expecting a bit of gratitude, a hint of respect for my sacrifice. But instead, a nightmare began, one I didn’t foresee.
Richard’s mother, Mrs. Margaret Wilson, soon after the wedding, brazenly demanded, “When will you renovate? The young ones can’t afford it, and the house needs an update before they move in.” I was stunned. My home was neat, well-kept, and warm — sure, it didn’t have the latest wallpapers or designer features, but did that really matter? I curbed my anger and calmly suggested, “If it’s so important to you, why don’t you fund the renovation? You’re parents too and could contribute.” She scoffed, “I’m not spending on someone else’s home!” Her words cut like a knife, but I stayed silent. I paid for a simple facelift myself, packed up, and moved to my mother’s, leaving my home to the young couple. I didn’t meddle in their lives, visited only when invited, respecting their boundaries. I understood the need for personal space and didn’t want to become that overbearing mother-in-law.
Meanwhile, Mrs. Wilson almost took up residence in my former home. She acted as if it were hers, which wore on my nerves increasingly.
As New Year approached, I went shopping and decided to get extra supplies to share with my daughter, Emma — hoping to make her happy and show support. The bags were heavy, my hands ached, and I couldn’t reach my phone to call ahead. I decided to drop by unannounced — after all, I’m her mother! I unlocked the door with my key and froze. In the kitchen, at my old table, sat Mrs. Wilson leisurely sipping tea. In front of her was a menu for the holiday, neatly written with notes. It hit me: they were planning to celebrate New Year’s together. Emma and Richard invited her and his parents over. But not me, or my mum. We’d been completely overlooked.
The pain pierced through me like a cold gust of wind. I stood there, unable to utter a word, as emptiness filled my chest. Why were we, who gave everything, pushed aside like strangers? In that moment, I realized I rushed with the house. I should have waited, observed more, rather than saving them at the cost of my own life. But it’s too late now — what’s done can’t be undone.
How do I live with this betrayal? I gave my daughter everything — my home, years of my life, my health, my love, and in return, I received cold indifference. My sacrifice turned into a knife in the back, and this wound will never heal.
