Now my daughter is 38, with no family, no husband, but she wants a child: Time can’t be undone, but she can learn to cherish life here and now.
Last month, my daughter and I attended my niece’s wedding at a quaint little restaurant in Manchester. The celebration was exquisite—every detail perfected, the bride radiant with joy, the guests lost in the warmth of love. Afterward, my daughter, Emily, stayed the night at my place—we live in different towns.
The next morning, I found her by the window, staring into nothingness, tears streaking down her cheeks. My girl was crying, and my heart twisted in pain.
I rushed to her. “Em, what’s wrong? Last night was lovely!” She lifted her sorrowful eyes and whispered, “It was. I never had a wedding like that. And now I never will.” Her voice trembled. “When I got married, there was no dress, no celebration…” A memory struck me like a punch to the gut.
Ten years ago, I’d begged her to have a proper wedding. I wanted my only daughter to shimmer in white, her hair elegantly styled, nails done, makeup flawless. I would have paid for everything—the venue, the photographer, the flowers. “Emily, this is *your* day!” I’d pleaded. But she waved me off, insisting weddings were outdated. I was horrified when she showed up to the registry office in jeans and a t-shirt. No bouquet, no joy—just signatures and silence. Her marriage was as cold as a November drizzle.
That was Emily—always rejecting tradition. At school, when her classmates agonized over dresses and suits for prom, she’d grabbed her A-level certificate in shorts and left without a glance. No dances, no memories.
Her marriage mirrored that indifference. She refused to even *discuss* children, though her husband, Thomas, longed for a family. Most couples settle this before vows, but Emily, young and driven, believed kids could wait. She wanted freedom—career, travel, self-discovery. Four years in, Thomas walked away. He remarried quickly, now a father of three, while Emily remained alone.
She dates occasionally but always says, “I don’t need anyone.” Yet I see the loneliness. She was always fiercely independent, but now it’s hardened into emptiness.
That morning, she confessed, “Mum, I regret not having a child. I’m 38, and I have nothing.” Her words shattered me.
Now she dreams of motherhood. She says when I’m gone, she’ll need someone to live for. But I’m terrified for her. A child is a lifetime of responsibility, and Emily barely scrapes by. She works herself ragged, but money’s always tight. I can’t help her financially, and the helplessness tears me apart. I hold her, soothe her, but her eyes hold a grief too deep for words.
She’s missed so much—the wedding, the family, the warmth. Now the void consumes her.
Yet I still believe she has time. At 38, life isn’t over. If she chooses, she could find love, marry, have a child. The key is not drowning in regret. Time lost can’t be reclaimed—but she can learn to treasure what’s left.
I pray my girl finds happiness, that her smile returns. But for now, all I see are her tears—and they break my heart.
