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 of their own, my husband and I breathed a sigh of relief. At last, it seemed, we could finally live for ourselves—the years of hard struggle to provide for our family were behind us. For as long as I could remember, we had lived modestly, working at the factory from dawn till dusk, earning pennies, yet never allowing ourselves to complain. Every penny we made went into raising our girls.
We denied ourselves every little luxury—no new boots, no holidays—just so our daughters could have the same comforts as children from wealthier families. I remember counting every pound, determined to buy them decent clothes, good textbooks, and send them to after-school clubs. We believed they would grow up, go to university, find good jobs—and then life would finally get easier.
But things didn’t turn out as we’d hoped. After school, both went on to study, and once again—pay, provide, support. We never got a moment’s rest. Degrees, weddings one after another, then grandchildren. And just like that, the cycle began anew.
When their maternity leave ended, both daughters tearfully insisted their little ones were still too young for nursery. They begged me to look after them. I was retired, but I had still been working odd jobs—my pension alone wasn’t enough. After a long talk, my husband and I decided I’d give up my part-time work to become a full-time grandmother. He, despite his age, kept working to cover our expenses.
Two pensions and his wages—it was enough. By then, our 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 doing well, we had peace of mind.
But everything ended in an instant. 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 suddenly, I was alone. I had buried not only the love of my life but my rock, my purpose.
Of course, the girls grieved. They cried, they comforted me—but not for long. Within weeks, they announced it was time to send the children to nursery. And just like that, they left. I was alone—in silence, in an empty house, with a shattered heart and a meager pension.
Only then did I realize how terrifying and bitter it is to be unwanted. The money slipped away—bills, groceries, medicine. There was never enough. So when they visited, I finally worked up the courage to ask for help. Just a little, just enough to cover the bills so I could afford my pills.
The eldest said they had no money to spare—loans, expenses, the children. The youngest just stayed silent, pretending not to hear. Since then—no calls, no visits. As if I never existed.
I sit here and wonder—did I deserve this? Was every sacrifice, every sleepless night, every bit of care worth nothing? Where is the gratitude, the love they speak of in books and films? Or is all of it just a fairy tale?
Every evening, I look at old photos. There we are—my husband and I, young and full of hope. The girls are small, laughing. Back then, we were happy. Back then, we had a family. Now—silence, emptiness, and sorrow.
I don’t know what I did to make my daughters turn away. But I do know this—I can’t go on like this.
And perhaps the hardest lesson is this: love, if given without boundaries, may never be returned in kind. The greatest kindness you can offer yourself is knowing when to say enough.
