Swallowing Tears: How I Went from Mother-Queen to a Mad Old Woman
In this world, I’ve always been alone. From the earliest days of my childhood. My parents passed when I was just eight, leaving me with my grandmother in a crumbling cottage on the edge of a village. She was my mother, my father, my whole world. But she was gone by the time I turned fifteen—and that’s when I realized I had no one left to rely on. All I had was myself.
After year eight, I married. I thought I’d found family, a shoulder to lean on. Then my daughter was born—my little joy, my sunshine. But my husband wasn’t the man I’d dreamed of: he drank, raised his fists. The tears I shed over him, the nights I slept in my clothes, terrified he’d stumble home late and angry. Eventually, I knew—if not for myself, then for my girl—I had to leave. I divorced. Just me and my little one, skint with no one to turn to. But I had a purpose: to raise her, educate her, give her everything I never had.
I worked myself ragged. Mornings at the bakery, evenings scrubbing offices, weekends cleaning homes. Rain or snow, I trudged on. At home, I fixed a smile so my girl wouldn’t see how hard it was. She grew up bright and beautiful, and I… I did everything to make sure she lacked nothing. Dolls, books, a bicycle. I stitched her dresses, scraped pennies for myself, took out loans—anything for my princess.
“Mum, you’re the best! You’re a queen!” she’d say, and those words set my heart soaring.
Then came school, prom. She rushed to me, beaming—
“Mum, I found the perfect dress! It’s only a thousand…”
A thousand! My whole wage was three hundred. But I nodded. Sold my grandmother’s gold earrings—her memory, traded for a dress.
She got into uni. I was proud! I took on more work. Still, it wasn’t enough. Rent, tuition, food, bus fares.
“Mum, you’re earning well in Greece, yeah? Can you send a bit more? It’s tough here…”
Meanwhile, I was scrubbing Athenian floors from dawn till dusk. Swollen veins, aching back, fingers cracked from bleach. But I worked. For her, always.
Years passed. A phone call—
“Mum, I’m in love. We’re getting married.”
I was stunned.
“What about your degree? Your future?”
“I’ll sort it later, Mum. Don’t worry!”
So I worked harder. To give her a proper wedding—dress, banquet, guests. Even the bouquet was on me. Then a grandchild. A pram, a cot, nappies, formula. “Mum, we’re struggling. Help.” And I helped.
Then I dared to want something—a car. Nothing fancy, just an old banger. My back ached, and buses were a slog. Maybe the kids would chip in?
“Mum, are you mad? What do you need a car for? Better give the money to your grandson—we’re redoing his room. You’ll manage with the bus!”
That’s when I realized. The bitter truth: to them, I wasn’t the mother-queen anymore. I was just a tired, nagging old woman—a burden. In their way.
I stepped outside, sat on a bench in the drizzling rain. My whole life flashed by—sleepless nights, calloused hands, silent sobs in the kitchen. All for her. And now? Now I was nobody. Not a mother. Not a grandmother. Just… nothing.
I wiped my tears with my coat sleeve.
“It’s fine,” I whispered. “I’ll manage. Like always.”
But the ache stayed. The pain of a mother forgotten. Betrayed. Cast aside. Maybe one day, when she’s a mother herself, she’ll understand. She’ll know.
I stood. The rain thickened. Hair soaked, shoes squelching, but I walked. Slow. Straight. Because I’m a mother. I survived then—I’ll survive now.
To anyone reading this: don’t forget your mothers. Don’t measure their worth by convenience. While you’re young and carefree, they pour their last strength into you. And when your turn comes—God forbid you hear the same words you once said to them.
