I know what it’s like to lose everything and keep going. I know the sting of hiding tears behind the daily grind, behind the meek smile you force at each new dawn. And I know the ache of betrayal from those you’d have given the world for. My name is Margaret. If someone had told me a year ago that my only daughter would toss me out like a stray, I’d have laughed in their face. But life has a knack for kicking you where it hurts the most.
My husband and I lived cheek by jowl for twenty years. He worked at the grain mill—no grand ambitions, just honest graft to keep the family afloat. He died suddenly: his sleeve caught in the machinery, and that was that. What remained of him barely filled a box. That was the first crack in my heart. I was left with two children: a son and a daughter. My boy joined the army soon after—and came home in a zinc coffin. Some squaddie thought it’d be a laugh to fiddle with his rifle. He pulled the trigger. Just like that, my lad was gone.
I was blind with grief, barely breathing. But there was Emily—my youngest, my hope. I clung to life for her. She was finishing school, bright as a button, pretty as a picture, with grand dreams. So when a slick, well-off suitor waltzed into her life, I was chuffed—maybe she’d get the happiness I never had.
The wedding was a whirlwind. Emily wanted the full fairy tale—a posh reception, a corseted dress, a limo. I emptied my pockets: took out loans, flogged my jewellery, drained my savings. All for her. The in-laws were frosty and stiff. I clocked them straight away—the way they looked down their noses, spoke to me like I was the help. But I bit my tongue—didn’t want to spoil her big day.
After the honeymoon, the newlyweds turned up at mine. “Mum, you’ve always said how impossible the housing market is. Why not sell your flat and help us buy ours?” At first, I thought they were joking. But Emily was relentless. Tears, promises of eternal gratitude. They wore me down. Sold my flat, swore they’d sort me a place once things settled. They nabbed a swanky two-bedder, while I was shunted off to my mum’s tumbledown cottage—damp, crumbling, forgotten by time.
Life there was bleak. I barely knew a soul. One day, I fancied popping into town—to visit my husband’s and son’s graves. Tried ringing Emily. No answer. So I thought, sod it, I’ll surprise her. Knocked on her door. Her husband answered, smile nowhere in sight. He let me in, grudgingly. Emily lit up, but he shot her a look. Sat me in the kitchen, fed me, then dropped the bomb: “Mum, I’m sorry, but you can’t stay. I’ll call you a cab to the station.” I stared. Was this really my girl, the one I’d given everything for?
I waved off the cab. It was brass monkeys outside, no buses running. Ended up kipping on a bench by the flats. But I didn’t mind—at least I’d visited the graves, had a word with my boys.
Back home, I vowed never to chase her again. Let her come to me when she fancied.
Nearly a year later, the garden gate creaked. There stood Emily—pregnant, a bag in hand, eyes hollow. Sobbing. Turns out her husband had kicked her out. The very girl I’d lost my home for. “What about the flat?” I asked. “His name’s on the deeds. His mum even co-signed some refurb paperwork. Mum, I’ve got nothing left…”
I marched round to the in-laws’. They shoved documents in my face—bought during the marriage, half hers, they said. My money? Forgotten. Begged for even a payout. They cackled. Said their fancy renovations “covered” my stake.
Took it to court. But the law doesn’t side with mums who trust handshakes over contracts. Case dismissed. Everything was legal—just not right.
Emily stayed with me. Ashamed, weeping, begging forgiveness. And I? I looked at her and felt that same old tug in my chest. Hugged her, kissed her crown, whispered, “You’re my girl. I’m here as long as I’ve breath.”
Maybe her husband’s conscience pricked him. After our granddaughter was born, he wired me £10,000. No note. Came in handy—winter was brutal. Emily nagged me to buy a modest flat in town. I said I’d think on it. But really, I just stared out the window—toward two graves—and murmured, “Forgive me. I couldn’t steer her right. But I’ll keep trying… while I can.”
