My husband and I denied ourselves everything for our daughters, yet now I am alone and unwanted. What did I do to deserve such treatment from my own children?
When our girls grew up, my husband and I sighed with relief. The hardest years, we thought, were behind us—after all, we had carried the weight alone. Both of us worked at the factory, lived frugally. Our wages were pitiful. Still, we never let our daughters feel lesser than others. They always had clothes for school, stationery, even cinema tickets now and then.
We rarely indulged in anything for ourselves. I can’t remember the last time I bought a new coat—everything went to the girls. One after the other, they went off to university. More expenses. Their stipends barely covered bus fare, so we stepped in. We bought their clothes, paid their rent, made sure they ate well. I learned to count every penny again. But I never once regretted it—as long as they had what they needed.
After graduation, both married. My husband and I were happy—they had settled well. Then came grandchildren—two boys, one from each daughter. And so the cycle began anew. After maternity leave, both girls said it was too early for nursery and asked for my help. I was already retired but still cleaned offices to make ends meet. After talking with my husband, we decided—I’d mind the grandchildren, he’d keep working.
That was our life—two pensions and his wages. Their husbands started a business together, and in time, it flourished. We were proud, delighted. If they asked for money, we never refused—how could we? They were our children.
Then, in an instant, everything shattered. My husband left for work one morning and… never came back. A heart attack. They couldn’t save him. The ground vanished beneath me. Forty-two years together—how was I to go on? I was alone. The girls visited now and then, took the grandchildren, enrolled them in nursery. Then—silence. As if I’d been erased.
Only then did I realize my pension was paltry. Before, we’d managed—his wages helped. Now? Council tax, food, medicine… some days I’d stand in the chemist, forced to choose between tablets or bread. When my daughters finally stopped by, I gathered my courage.
Softly, I asked, *“Girls, if you could just help with the bills a little, I might afford my medicines…”* The eldest cut me off—said they had their own expenses, life was costly, money tight. The younger one… just stared past me, as if I hadn’t spoken. After that—nothing. No calls. No visits.
Now I sit alone in my flat, surrounded by photographs, the tiny booties I knitted for the babies. None of them come anymore. No one asks how I am. No one checks if I’m even alive. But once… once I was everything to them. Cooked their porridge, ironed their uniforms, rocked their cots through the night. Taught them their words, their letters, woke to their every cry.
These days, I watch from the window as other grannies walk past with their grandchildren, laughing, holding hands. For me—just silence. And bitterness. Because I don’t understand—what did I do wrong? When did I stop mattering? Do children forget so quickly?
I don’t ask for much. Not money, not gifts. Just a little warmth. A word or two. A call now and then. For someone to ask, *“Mum, how are you?”* For the grandchildren to visit, even just to sit with me. But it seems that’s a luxury I’m not allowed.
Every day, it gets harder to believe they’ll remember. Yet still, I wait. Because a mother’s heart never learns to stop waiting. Even when it hurts. Even when it’s cruel. Even when it feels like betrayal.
