My husband and I denied ourselves everything just so our daughters could have the best. Did I really deserve such indifference from my own children?
When our girls grew up, Victor, my late husband, and I finally breathed a sigh of relief. We thought, *Now life will get a little easier.* But easier it did not get—if anything, we simply traded one burden for another. Their entire childhood had been spent under endless constraints. We worked at the local factory—me as a packer, him as a lathe operator. The money barely stretched to cover food and clothes.
I still remember the pride I felt when I managed to buy them something decent—nothing fancy, just enough so they wouldn’t feel left out. No holidays, no new furniture, worn-out shoes—but at least they had what they needed. They went to an ordinary school but looked like proper little dollies. And we were proud of that. I assumed, one day, they’d appreciate our sacrifice.
Then came university—expenses doubled. Dorm fees, groceries, books—another round of tightening belts. I scraped together every last penny just to send them care packages. Victor and I lived for one thing: making life easier for them.
Soon enough, both girls got married, one after the other. Such joy—but it didn’t last. Almost immediately, they announced they were pregnant. First, I cried from happiness. Then, from dread. *Who’s going to look after the little ones when maternity leave ends?* In unison, they insisted nurseries were “too soon” and asked—no, *expected*—their dear old mum to step in.
By then, I’d retired but still cleaned part-time at the chemist’s. Victor and I talked it over—he insisted he’d keep working while I took charge of the grandchildren. And so began a new chapter: porridge, nappies, midnight sniffles, endless reruns of *Peppa Pig*—the whole circus all over again.
Years passed. The sons-in-law started their own businesses, doing rather well. We were happy for them—family first, after all. And if we still slipped them the odd fifty quid now and then, well, old habits die hard.
Then came the worst day of my life. Victor left for work—and never came home. A heart attack, right outside the factory gates. The ambulance was quick, but his heart gave out. My rock, my love of 42 years—gone in an instant. Without him, the world turned grey and hollow.
The girls cried, of course. They came to the funeral. Then, after a few days, they scooped up the grandkids and announced: *Mum, nursery’s sorted now. Thanks so much—you can rest at last.*
And just like that, I was alone. The flat was achingly quiet—no Victor’s footsteps, no laughter, no chaos. Reality hit hard: my pension wouldn’t stretch far. Rent, bills, medicine—it was too much. I stayed silent for months, scraping by. Until one day, during a rare visit, I finally hinted: *Girls, if you could just spare a bit towards the rent, I might afford my prescriptions…*
The eldest cut in immediately: *Mum, honestly! We’re barely making ends meet ourselves—have you seen the price of petrol?*
The younger one didn’t say a word, eyes glued to her phone. Then—the calls stopped. The visits dried up. As if I’d committed some unforgivable crime by daring to ask.
So here I am, wondering: *Did I really deserve this?* Is this what 40 years of love and sacrifice amounts to—a lonely, threadbare old age?
I still cling to this foolish hope—that they’ll remember. That somewhere beneath the busy lives and convenient excuses, a shred of gratitude still lives. But every silent day feels like another bruise. Was *this* what we worked for? Was *this* the reward for a lifetime of putting them first?
