**Diary Entry, 12th November 2023**
My husband and I denied ourselves everything just so our daughters could have a better life. Did I really deserve such coldness from my own children?
When our girls grew up, Victor—my late husband—and I finally breathed a sigh of relief. We thought, *Now we can live a little easier.* But life didn’t get easier—it just replaced one hardship with another. Their childhood was spent in constant sacrifice. We both worked at the local factory: me as a packer, Victor as a machinist. Our wages barely covered food and clothes.
I remember the pride I felt when I managed to buy them something nice, so they wouldn’t feel less than their classmates. We never went on holiday, never replaced our worn-out furniture, wore shoes until they fell apart—all so they could have what they needed. They went to a regular school but looked like princesses. And we were proud of that. I thought, one day, they’d appreciate our love and sacrifices.
When they got into university, the expenses only grew. Hall fees, supplies, groceries—so Victor and I tightened our belts again. I scrounged every spare pound to send them care packages. Our lives revolved around making theirs easier.
Soon enough, both girls got married, one after the other. We were overjoyed—until, almost immediately, they announced they were expecting. First, I cried with happiness. Then, with worry. Who would look after the babies when their maternity leave ended? Both daughters insisted nursery was too soon, and *of course*, they asked me—their mother—to step in.
I’d retired by then but took a part-time cleaning job at the chemist. Victor and I talked it over—he said he’d keep working, and I’d mind the grandchildren. So began another chapter: nappies, porridge, sleepless nights, snotty noses, and endless cartoons—all over again.
Years passed. Our sons-in-law started their own businesses and did well. We were happy for them—family sticks together, after all. And if we occasionally helped with groceries… well, we were used to it.
Then the worst happened. My Victor left for work one morning and never came home. A heart attack, right by the factory gates. The ambulance came quickly, but it was too late. My rock, my love of 42 years—gone. Without him, the world turned grey.
The girls cried, of course. They came to the funeral. Then they took the children home and said, *”Mum, it’s time for nursery now. You’ve done enough—you can rest.”*
And just like that, I was alone. The flat was deathly quiet—no Victor shuffling about, no grandchildren laughing. Worse still, my pension wasn’t enough. The rent, groceries, my medicine—it was all too much. I stayed quiet, endured it. But when they visited once, I finally hinted: *”Girls, if you could just help a little with the bills, I could afford my medication…”*
The eldest snapped back, *”Mum, seriously? We’re barely keeping up ourselves with prices these days!”* The youngest just stared at her phone. After that, they stopped visiting. Stopped calling. As if I’d done something wrong by daring to ask.
And here I sit, wondering—did I really deserve this? Is this how they repay a lifetime of sacrifice? Is my old age meant to be this poor, this sick, this lonely?
I still hope, deep down, they’ll remember. That some love remains. But every day without them is another cut. Was this what we worked for? What we gave our lives for? Is *this* all the gratitude we get?
