My husband and I denied ourselves everything for our daughters, and now I am alone and unwanted by anyone. Why do my own children treat me this way?
When our girls grew up, my husband and I breathed a sigh of relief. It seemed the hardest times were behind us, for we had carried everything together. We both worked at the factory, living modestly. Our wages were pitiful. Yet we never let our girls feel lesser than others. They always had clothes for school, stationery, and even money for the cinema.
We rarely indulged ourselves. I cannot remember the last time I bought myself a new coat—everything went to the girls. They went to university, one after the other. More expenses. Their grants barely covered travel, so we supported them—buying clothes, paying rent, helping with food. I learned to count every penny again. But I never regretted it. All that mattered was that they had what they needed.
After their studies, both married. My husband and I were happy—our children were settled. Then came grandchildren—two boys, one from each daughter. The cycle began anew. After maternity leave, both daughters said nursery was too soon and asked for my help. I was already retired but still worked as a cleaner to make ends meet. After talking with my husband, we decided—I would care for the grandchildren, and he would keep working.
So we lived—two pensions and his wages. Our sons-in-law started a business, and in time, it flourished. We were proud. If they ever needed money, we never refused—how could we? They were our children.
Then everything shattered. My husband left for work one morning… and never returned. His heart gave out. They couldn’t save him. The ground seemed to vanish beneath me. We had been together forty-two years, and I didn’t know how to go on. I was alone. For a while, the daughters visited, took the grandchildren, enrolled them in nursery. Then—it was as if I were erased.
I realised my pension was pitiful. Before, we had managed with my husband’s support. But now? Bills, food, medicine… Sometimes in the chemist, I had to choose: pills or bread. When my daughters finally visited, I gathered my courage.
Softly, I said, “Girls, if you could just help a little with the bills, I might afford my medicines…” The elder didn’t let me finish—said things were tight, money scarce. The younger… stayed silent, as if she hadn’t heard. After that—nothing. No calls, no visits.
I am left alone in my flat, surrounded by photographs, childhood crafts, tiny booties I knitted for my grandchildren. None of them return. No one asks how I am. No one wonders if I’m even alive. Yet once, I was everything—cooking their meals, ironing their clothes, rocking their prams through the night. I taught them to speak, to read, answered their every cry.
Now I sit by the window, watching strangers—grandmothers with grandchildren walking by, laughing, hand in hand. And I have silence. And bitterness. Because I don’t understand—what did I do to deserve this? When did I stop mattering? Do children forget so quickly all that was done for them?
I don’t ask for much. Not money or gifts. Just warmth—a few words, a call now and then. Just to hear, *Mum, how are you?* For the grandchildren to visit, to sit beside me. But it seems that’s a luxury I’m not granted.
With each passing day, I lose hope they’ll remember. Yet still, I wait. Because a mother’s heart never stops waiting. Even when it hurts. Even when it’s unfair. Even when it feels like betrayal.
