I gave everything for my daughter’s happiness, yet instead of gratitude, I received betrayal.
After the wedding, my daughter and her husband didn’t have a place of their own. I understood how important it was for young couples to have their own space and without hesitation, I sacrificed my comfort. I moved out of my cozy two-bedroom home in a small village near Oxford and went to live with my mother, handing over everything I had to my daughter and her husband. I deprived myself of comfort so that she, my own flesh and blood, could start her new life with a clean slate. This was my gift to her—a gift that I hoped she would appreciate.
I raised her alone, through hard work, after my husband passed away, leaving me with an eight-year-old girl to care for. It broke my heart, but I had no choice—I had to raise her well. My mother, my guardian angel, was by my side all these years, and without her, I would’ve been swallowed by the darkness of loneliness and endless duties. Together, we endured, year after year. My daughter grew up, graduated from university in the city, and found her love—Edward. Then came the wedding, a day that should have been joyful for us all.
Initially, I wanted to take my mother in and give the young couple her small one-bedroom flat, but then I reconsidered. My two-bedroom home was more spacious, brighter, and cozier—I decided it would be the best start for them. I handed it over with an open heart, hoping for a hint of gratitude, a shadow of respect for my sacrifice. Instead, a nightmare unfolded that I hadn’t foreseen.
Edward’s mother, Mary Thompson, arrived shortly after the wedding with a brazen demand: “When are you going to renovate? The couple can’t afford it, and the house is old; it needs to be fixed up before they move in.” I was stunned. My home was clean, well-kept, and warm—perhaps without the latest wallpaper and designer touches, but was that what mattered? I held back my anger and replied coolly, “If it’s so important to you, pay for the renovation yourself. You’re the parents too; you could contribute.” She scoffed, “I’m not spending money on someone else’s property!” Her words cut like a knife, but I stayed silent. I did a simple makeover with my own money, packed my things, and left for my mother’s, leaving my old nest to the young couple. I never interfered, only visited when invited, respecting their space. I understand personal boundaries and didn’t want to be that intrusive mother-in-law.
Yet Mary all but moved in, managing my former home as though it were her own, and it grated on my nerves increasingly.
Before Christmas, I went shopping. I decided to buy more groceries to share with my daughter, Lisa—I wanted to make her happy, to support her. The bags were heavy, my hands were aching, and I couldn’t retrieve my phone to warn them of my visit. I decided to drop by unannounced—after all, I’m her mother! I unlocked the door with my key, stepped inside, and froze. There, in the kitchen at my old table, sat Mary, leisurely sipping tea. In front of her lay a piece of paper with a carefully written holiday menu, complete with notes. It dawned on me: they were preparing to celebrate Christmas together. Lisa and Edward had invited her and his parents over. My mother and I were left out. We were simply bypassed.
The pain hit me like an icy wind. I stood there, unable to utter a word, as a void grew in my chest. What made us less important? Why had we, after giving everything, been cast aside like strangers? It was in that moment that I realized I had acted too hastily with the house. I should have waited, observed, refrained from rescuing them at the expense of my own life. But now it was too late—what’s done is done.
How should I continue living with this betrayal? I gave my daughter everything—my home, my years, my health, my love—and received cold indifference in return. My sacrifice turned into a dagger to my back, and this wound will never heal.
