My life was turned upside down recently, and the pain of this betrayal still claws at my heart. Our only daughter, Emily, secretly got married, and lied to her husband and his family, claiming she was an orphan. My wife and I are both alive, well, and never gave her reason to treat us so cruelly.
My wife, Margaret, and I are ordinary working folk from a small village near Sheffield. I’m a mechanic at a local garage, she’s a nurse at the village clinic. We’re not wealthy, but for Emily, we would’ve moved heaven and earth. She was our only child, our pride and joy, and we spoiled her as best we could, giving her everything we had.
Emily always dreamed of life in the big city. When we’d visit relatives in Manchester, she’d beg to stay. She believed that’s where she’d find happiness and success. We didn’t argue—we just wanted her to be happy. When it was time for university, Emily insisted on studying in London. Her grades 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 it left us scraping by in our village.
Emily left to conquer the city, while we stayed behind. In five years of study, she came home only twice. We visited her instead—bringing homemade jam, savings—but each time, she greeted us coldly. As if she was ashamed of our plain clothes, our country way of speaking. She shared a flat with classmates who treated us warmer than our own daughter. Her calls became rarer, and we gave her space, thinking she’d tell us if anything important happened.
But we learned of her wedding from strangers. A neighbour, whose son studies in London, phoned to say he’d seen Emily in a wedding dress. We couldn’t believe it. Hoped it was a mistake, some cruel joke. But the truth was worse. How could she do this? I phoned her, holding back tears, demanding answers. Emily didn’t deny it. In a voice like ice, she told me about her husband and added, “I won’t introduce you.”
The floor might as well have dropped beneath me. “Why?” I choked out. Her answer cut like a knife: “His parents are wealthy, educated people, and you… you’re not good enough. I told them I’m an orphan. That I have no family. Don’t blame me—I couldn’t admit my dad fixes lorries and my mum gives flu jabs to pensioners. You embarrassed me enough, showing up at uni with jars of pickles. Just leave me alone!”
Margaret, hearing this, silently pulled out an old photo of Emily, crumpled it in her fist, and walked out to the garden. I saw her shoulders shake as she reached for a cigarette—she quit ten years ago. As for me… I still can’t make sense of it. Every day, I swallow back the ache, but it won’t fade. What did we do to deserve this?
We gave her everything: love, money, our own dreams. And she cast us aside like we were stains on her new “city life.” How do you go on, knowing your own child is ashamed of you? What would you do in our place? How do you survive such betrayal?
