**Diary Entry**
I know what it’s like to lose everything and keep going. I know the weight of hiding tears behind daily chores, behind a quiet smile as another dawn breaks. And I know the pain of betrayal from those you’d give anything for. My name is Margaret. If someone had told me a year ago that my only daughter would throw me out like a stray, I’d have laughed in their face. But life has a way of striking where it hurts most.
My husband and I shared twenty loving years. He worked at the grain mill—honest, humble, doing his best to provide. He died suddenly when his coat sleeve caught in the machinery. There was barely anything left of him. That was the first crack in my heart. I was left alone with our two children: a son and a daughter. My son enlisted soon after—only to return in a flag-draped coffin. Some squaddie thought it funny to play with his rifle. He pulled the trigger. My boy was gone.
I was blind with grief, barely breathing. But there was Emily—my youngest, my hope. I clung to her. She was finishing school, bright and beautiful, full of dreams. When a polished, well-off suitor appeared, I was relieved—perhaps she’d have the happiness I’d lost.
The wedding was quick. Emily wanted it “perfect”—a posh venue, a corseted gown, a limousine. I emptied myself for her: took out loans, sold my jewelry, drained my savings. For her. His parents were cold, reserved. I disliked them instantly—they looked down on me, spoke to me like staff. But I bit my tongue, not wanting to spoil her day.
After the wedding, the newlyweds came to me. “Mum, you’ve said yourself how hard it is to buy a home. Why not sell your flat and help us get ours?” It took me a moment to realise they were serious. But Emily insisted—cried, swore she’d be grateful forever. They convinced me to sell, promised they’d find me a place once things settled. They bought a spacious two-bedroom, while I moved to my mother’s crumbling cottage in the middle of nowhere, forgotten by time.
Life there was lonely, harsh. I knew hardly a soul. One day, I wanted to visit London—to see my husband’s and son’s graves. I called Emily, but she didn’t answer. So I went unannounced. Knocked on her door. Her husband answered—no smile, just stiff politeness. Emily brightened when she saw me, but he shut it down fast. She fed me in the kitchen, then said, “Mum, I’m sorry, but you can’t stay. I’ll call you a cab to the station.” I stared—was this really my daughter, the one I’d given everything to?
I refused the cab. It was freezing, the buses had stopped. I slept on a bench under their building’s awning. But I didn’t regret it—at least I’d visited the graves, spoken to my loved ones.
Back home, I vowed never to seek her out again. Let her come to me if she remembered.
Nearly a year passed. Then, the gate creaked. There stood Emily—pregnant, a bag in hand, eyes hollow. She was sobbing. Her husband had thrown her out. The one I’d lost my home for. I asked, “What about the flat?”
“It’s in his name. His mother co-signed the renovation papers. Mum, I’ve got nothing left.”
I confronted his parents. They waved documents in my face—the flat was bought during the marriage, so it was split fairly. My money? Forgotten. I begged for compensation. They laughed. Said the refurbishment “covered” my contribution.
I took it to court. But the law doesn’t side with mothers who trust promises over paperwork. Case dismissed. Everything was done by the book—just not with decency.
Emily stayed with me. Ashamed, weeping, begging forgiveness. And I looked at her—still feeling that same love. I held her, kissed her forehead, and whispered, “You’re my daughter. I’m here as long as I can be.”
Maybe guilt got to her husband. After our granddaughter was born, he transferred £10,000 without a word. It came just in time—winter was brutal. Emily urged me to buy a modest flat in town. I said I’d think on it. But I just looked out the window—toward those two graves—and murmured, “Forgive me. I couldn’t protect our girl. But I’ll stand by her… while I still can.”
