My husband and I sacrificed everything for our daughters, and now I’m alone and unwanted. Why do my own children treat me this way?
When our girls grew up, my husband and I breathed a sigh of relief. The hardest years seemed behind us—we’d carried the weight alone. We both worked at the factory, lived modestly. Our wages were barely enough to scrape by. Yet we made sure our girls never felt less than others. They always had clothes for school, stationery, even the odd trip to the cinema.
We denied ourselves every little luxury. I can’t remember the last time I bought a new coat—everything went to the girls. One by one, they went off to university. More expenses. Their student loans barely covered travel, so we stepped in—clothes, rent, groceries. I learned to count every penny and never once regretted it. Their happiness was all that mattered.
After graduation, both married. We were overjoyed—our girls had their futures. Then came grandchildren—two boys, one for each daughter. And the cycle began again. After maternity leave, both said nursery was too soon and begged me to help. I’d just retired but still cleaned offices to make ends meet. My husband and I talked it over: I’d look after the boys; he’d keep working.
That was our life—two pensions and his wage. Our sons-in-law started a business together, and in time, it thrived. We were proud. If they ever asked for money, we gave it—how could we refuse? They were our children.
Then, one day, everything shattered. My husband left for work… and never came home. A heart attack. They couldn’t save him. It felt like the ground had vanished beneath me. Forty-two years together—how was I meant to go on alone? For a while, my daughters visited, took the boys, enrolled them in nursery. Then—silence.
I realized then how small my pension was. Before, we’d managed—his wage had been my safety net. Now? Rent, food, medication… I stood in Boots some days, choosing between pills and bread. When my daughters finally stopped by, I gathered my courage.
Softly, I said, *”Girls, if you could just help with the bills, I could afford my medicine…”* The eldest cut me off—they had their own expenses, everything was dear, money was tight. The youngest… said nothing, as if she hadn’t heard. After that—nothing. No calls. No visits.
Now I sit alone in my flat, surrounded by photos, tiny shoes I knitted for the boys, their childhood drawings. None of them come. No one asks how I am. No one even checks if I’m still alive. Yet once, I was everything to them. I cooked their meals, ironed their uniforms, rocked them through sleepless nights. I taught them to speak, to read, woke at their first cry.
Now I watch through the window as other grandmothers walk by, hand in hand with their grandchildren, laughing. And here I sit—with silence. And bitterness. Because I don’t understand. What did I do to deserve this? When did I stop mattering? Do children forget so easily all that was done for them?
I don’t ask for much. Not money. Not presents. Just a little warmth—a call now and then, a *”Mum, how are you?”* I’d give anything to have my grandsons beside me, even for an hour. But it seems that’s a luxury I’m not allowed.
Every day, it gets harder to believe they’ll remember me. But still, I wait. Because a mother’s heart never stops waiting. Even when it hurts. Even when it feels like betrayal.
