**Diary Entry**
My daughter was ashamed of us for being country folk. She didn’t even invite us to her wedding…
Me and my husband, we’ve always lived simply but honestly. Our own house, a small garden, a couple of cows—our whole life revolved around raising our only daughter to be a good person. Everything we had, we gave to her. New shoes? Of course. A coat so she wouldn’t feel less than her city friends? Without hesitation. We’d have gone without just to make sure she had what she needed. She grew up clever, beautiful—top of her class, dreaming of city life. And we were happy for her. Our Emily would have a different fate, better than ours.
Through an old connection, my husband got her into a prestigious university in London. A full scholarship. We were prouder than if we’d climbed Everest ourselves. We supported her every way we could—with money, with words. Every visit home felt like Christmas. We’d hang on her stories like they were fairy tales—her office job, her posh boyfriend, William, the son of some businessman. She glowed when she spoke of him. And all we kept thinking was—*when’s the wedding?*
But years passed with no ring. Finally, my husband said, “Invite William here, let’s meet the lad!” She hesitated, made excuses about work. Again and again. Something felt off. So one day, we decided—we’d go to London ourselves. Found the address in old letters, packed some treats, put on our best clothes, and set off.
The house was like something out of a film. Stone, glass, security buzzing at the gate. A polite man let us in—luxury everywhere. We stood there, awkward as lambs in a shop, till we were led to the sitting room. And then I saw it. On the table, a framed wedding photo. In white lace, holding a bouquet—our Emily. My husband froze like a statue. Me? I felt the floor drop away.
*”Why didn’t you come to the wedding, by the way?”* William asked suddenly.
We exchanged looks. What could we say? That we never knew? Then she walked in. Emily. Her face went pale, lips trembling. I motioned for her to step outside. At first, she stammered, but then it came out—
*”I didn’t invite you… because… you’re from the countryside. I was embarrassed. I didn’t want anyone knowing my parents were just… farmers.”*
Those words cut deep. Like a blade. How could we—*her own family*—be shameful? After all we’d given up for her? All those years of work without a single holiday, just so she could have a future?
*”And William?”* I asked, barely breathing. *”Did he know?”*
*”Yes. He wanted you there. He even sent an invitation, but I told him you refused…”*
So that’s it. We were her dirty little secret. Not even allowed to stand at the edge of her big day. No explanation, no chance—just erased.
We left that same afternoon. No tears, no shouting. Just silence, heavy as lead. How do you carry on when your own child turns away? How do you even begin to believe any of it mattered? That the person we raised is now a stranger?
She hasn’t called. Neither have we. Not out of anger—just emptiness. What do you say to someone who threw you away so easily?
**Lesson learned:** Love isn’t always enough to keep a heart from straying. But dignity? That’s yours to keep, no matter what.
