Years ago, our lives were turned upside down by a betrayal that still weighs heavily on my heart. Our only daughter, Evelyn, secretly married and told her husband and his family that she was an orphan. My husband and I are alive and well—we never gave her reason to cast us aside so cruelly.
Edward and I were ordinary folk from a small village near York. I worked as a nurse at the local clinic, while he mended farm equipment. We weren’t wealthy, but for Evelyn, we would have moved heaven and earth. She was our pride and joy, our only child, and we spoiled her as best we could, giving all we had.
From a young age, Evelyn dreamed of city life. Whenever we visited relatives in Manchester, she begged to stay. She swore that only there would she find happiness and success. We never argued—we wanted her to be content. When it was time for university, she insisted on attending in Manchester. Her marks weren’t enough for a scholarship, so we sold my parents’ cottage to pay her tuition and rent. We did it for her dreams, though we remained in the village, working as we always had.
Evelyn left to conquer the city, while we stayed behind. In five years of study, she visited only twice. We went to her instead, bringing homemade preserves and what little money we could spare, yet each time, she greeted us coldly—as if ashamed of our plain clothes and country manners. She shared a flat with classmates who treated us with more kindness than our own daughter. Calls from Evelyn grew rare, and we held back, not wishing to intrude. If something important happened, we trusted she would tell us.
But we learned of her wedding from strangers. A neighbour, whose son studied in Manchester, rang to say he’d seen Evelyn in a wedding gown. We couldn’t believe it—hoped it was a mistake, a cruel joke. The truth was worse. How could she do this to us? I called her, stifling my tears, and demanded an explanation. Evelyn didn’t deny it. In a voice colder than winter, she spoke of her new husband and added, “I won’t be introducing you.”
The ground seemed to vanish beneath me. “Why?” I whispered. Her answer struck like a knife: “His parents are wealthy, educated people, and you… you’d be out of place. I told them I was an orphan—that I had no family. Don’t you dare blame me! I couldn’t admit my father fixes ploughs and my mother tends to sick animals. You humiliated me enough when you showed up at the university with jars of jam. Enough!”
Edward, hearing this, silently pulled out an old photograph of Evelyn, crumpled it in his fist, and stepped onto the porch. I watched his shoulders tremble as he reached for a cigarette—though he’d quit a decade before. As for me… I still haven’t recovered. Each day, I swallow my grief, but the pain lingers. Why? What did we do to deserve this from our own child?
We gave her everything: love, money, our own dreams. And she cast us aside as though we were a stain on her new, “proper” life. How does one go on, knowing their own daughter is ashamed of them? What would you do in our place? How does a person survive such betrayal?
