I know what it’s like to lose everything and keep going. I know what it’s like to hide tears behind the daily grind, behind a quiet smile as you greet another dawn. And I know what it’s like to be betrayed by the ones you’d give everything for. My name is Margaret. If someone had told me a year ago that my only daughter would throw me out like some homeless beggar, I’d have laughed in their face. But life has a way of hitting you where it hurts the most.
My husband and I were happily married for twenty years. He worked at a grain mill—honest, hardworking, no grand ambitions, just providing for us. He died suddenly: his jacket sleeve caught in the machinery, and just like that, he was gone. His body was barely recognizable. That was the first crack in my heart. I was left alone with two children: a son and a daughter. My son enlisted soon after—and came back in a zinc coffin. Some soldier thought it’d be funny to play around with his rifle. He pulled the trigger. My boy was gone.
I was blind with grief, barely breathing. But there was Lucy—my youngest, my hope. I held on for her. She was finishing school—bright, beautiful, full of dreams. And when a polished, wealthy suitor came into her life, I was relieved. Maybe she’d have the happiness I couldn’t.
The wedding was quick. Lucy wanted it “just like in the films”—a posh reception, a corset dress, a limousine. I bent over backwards: took out a loan, sold my jewelry, drained my savings. For her. The groom’s parents were cold, distant. I didn’t like them from the start. They looked down on me, spoke to me like I was the help. But I kept quiet—I didn’t want to ruin my daughter’s big day.
After the wedding, the newlyweds came to me. “Mum, you know how hard it is to find a place these days. Why not sell your flat and help us buy ours?” At first, I didn’t take them seriously. But Lucy insisted. She cried, swore she’d be grateful forever. They convinced me. Sold my flat, promised they’d sort something for me once things settled. They bought themselves a spacious two-bedroom, while I moved to my mother’s crumbling old cottage in the middle of nowhere.
Life there was lonely, hard. I barely knew a soul. One day, I wanted to visit the city—to see my husband’s and son’s graves. I called Lucy, but she didn’t answer. So I went unannounced. Knocked on her door. Her husband answered—no smile. He let me in, grudgingly. Lucy was happy to see me, but he cut her off. She sat me at the kitchen table, fed me, then said, “Mum, I’m sorry, but you can’t stay here. I’ll call you a cab to the station.” I stared at her, disbelieving. This was my daughter—the one I’d given everything to.
I refused the cab. It was freezing, no buses running. I spent the night on a bench under a shop awning. But I didn’t regret it—at least I’d visited the graves, spoken to my loved ones.
I went home and decided: I wouldn’t go to her again. Let her come to me when she remembered.
Nearly a year passed. Then one day, the garden gate creaked. There stood Lucy—pregnant, a bag in her hand, eyes hollow. She was crying. Turns out, 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 cosigned the renovation papers. Mum, I’ve got nothing left…”
I went to his parents. They shoved paperwork at me—said the flat was bought during the marriage, so it was split fairly. As for my money? Forgotten. I begged for even a pittance—they laughed. Said the renovations “covered” what I’d put in.
I took it to court. But the law doesn’t side with mothers who trust words over receipts. Case dismissed. Everything was legally perfect—just not morally.
Lucy stayed with me. Ashamed, crying, begging forgiveness. And I looked at her, feeling that same mother’s love. Held her, kissed the top of her head, and whispered, “You’re my daughter. I’m here for you as long as I can be.”
Maybe her husband’s conscience finally bit him. Because after my granddaughter was born, he transferred fifty thousand quid—no note. That money saved us—winter was brutal. Lucy begged me to buy even a tiny flat in town. I said I’d think about it. Then I looked out the window—toward where two graves lay—and whispered, “Forgive me. I couldn’t keep our girl safe. But I’m with her… for as long as I can be.”
