We denied ourselves everything so our daughters would want for nothing. Did I truly deserve such indifference from my own children?
When our daughters grew up and started families, my husband and I breathed a sigh of relief. It seemed we could finally live for ourselves—the years of exhausting struggle for our family’s well-being were over. For as long as I could remember, we lived modestly, worked dawn till dusk at the factory, earned pennies, yet never let ourselves complain. Every pound we scraped together went to our girls.
We denied ourselves the smallest comforts—no new boots, no holidays—just so our daughters could have what the better-off children did. I remember meticulously counting every pence to buy them decent clothes, proper textbooks, to send them to after-school clubs. We believed they’d grow up, go to university, find good jobs—and life would finally ease.
But it didn’t go as we dreamed. After school, they both pursued higher education, and again—pay, scrimp, help. We barely had a moment to rest. Degrees, weddings one after another, then grandchildren. And the cycle began again.
When maternity leave ended, both daughters insisted their children were still too young for nursery. They begged me tearfully to look after them. I was already retired but still working odd jobs—my pension wasn’t enough. My husband and I talked it over, and I gave up my part-time work to become a full-time grandmother. He kept working despite his age to cover expenses.
Two pensions and his wages—it was just enough. By then, the sons-in-law had started a business together, which began to turn a profit. But nothing changed for us. We still helped—with money, time, care. And we were happy, because if the children were alright, we could rest easy.
Then everything shattered in an instant. One morning, my husband left for work and never came home. His heart gave out. The ambulance arrived quickly, but it was too late. Forty-two years together—and now I was alone. I buried not just the love of my life but my rock, my purpose.
Our daughters grieved, of course. They cried, they comforted me. But not for long. Two weeks later, they said it was time to enrol the children in nursery. Just like that, they walked away. And I was left—alone in the silence of an empty flat, with a shattered heart and a pittance of a pension.
Only then did I understand how bitter, how terrifying it is to be unwanted. The money dwindled—bills needed paying, food and medicine bought. There wasn’t enough. So when they visited, I gathered my courage and asked for help. Just a little, enough to cover the bills so I could afford my pills.
The eldest snapped back that they had nothing to spare—loans, expenses, the children. The youngest stayed silent, pretending not to hear. Since then? Not a call, not a visit. As if I never existed.
I sit here and wonder—did I deserve this? Were all my sacrifices, the sleepless nights, the endless scrimping and worrying worth nothing? Where is the love, the duty they speak of in books and films? Or is it all just a fairy tale?
Every evening, I stare at old photos—my husband and I, young and filled with hope. The girls, little and smiling. Back then, we were happy. Back then, we were a family. Now? Silence. Emptiness. And a bitterness that gnaws at my soul.
I don’t know what I did wrong. But I know this—I can’t go on like this.
