We denied ourselves everything so our daughters would want for nothing. Did I deserve such coldness from my own children?
When our daughters grew up and started families, my husband and I breathed a sigh of relief. At last, it seemed, we could live for ourselves—the years of struggle for our family’s well-being were behind us. For as long as I could remember, we lived modestly, working day and night at the factory, earning pennies, but never letting ourselves complain. Every penny went into our girls.
We denied ourselves absolutely everything. No new boots, no holidays—just so our daughters could have what the well-off children did. I remember counting every pound, making sure they had decent clothes, proper textbooks, after-school clubs. We believed that once they grew up, went to university, found jobs—life would get better.
But it didn’t turn out as we dreamed. After school, both went off to study, and again—pay, scrape together, help. No time to catch our breath. Degrees, weddings one after the other, then grandchildren. And the cycle started anew.
When maternity leave ended, both daughters insisted the little ones were still too young for nursery. With tears, they begged me to look after them. I was already retired, but still took odd jobs—the pension wasn’t enough. My husband and I talked it over, and I gave up my side work to become a full-time grandmother. He kept working, despite his age, to cover expenses.
Two pensions and his wages—it was enough. Our sons-in-law had started a business by then, which began turning a profit, but nothing changed for us. We still helped—with money, time, care. And we were happy, because if the children were fine, we could rest easy.
Then, in an instant, it all fell apart. One morning, my husband left for work and never came back. His heart gave out. The ambulance arrived quickly, but they couldn’t save him. Forty-two years together—and now I was alone. I buried not just the love of my life, but my rock, my purpose.
The daughters grieved, of course. Cried, offered support. But not for long. A couple of weeks later, they announced it was time to put the children in nursery. Just like that, they left. And I remained—in silence, in an empty flat, with a broken heart and a pitiful pension.
Only then did I understand how bitter, how terrifying it is to be needed by no one. The money dwindled—bills, food, medicine. But there wasn’t enough. So when they visited, I finally asked for help. Just enough to cover the bills, so I could buy the pills I needed.
The eldest replied at once that they had no money either—loans, expenses, the kids… The youngest just stayed quiet, pretended not to hear. Since then—no calls, no visits. As if I never existed.
I sit here and wonder—did I deserve this? Did all my sacrifices, sleepless nights, endless scrimping and caring—did they mean nothing? Where is the debt, the love they talk about in books and films? Or were those just fairy tales?
Every evening, I look at old photographs. There we are, young, full of hope. The girls small, smiling. Back then, we were happy. Back then, we had a family. Now—silence, emptiness, and bitterness.
I don’t know what I did wrong. But I know this—I can’t go on like this.
