I know what it’s like to lose everything and still keep going. I know how it feels to hide tears behind everyday chores, behind a quiet smile you force when another dawn breaks. And I know the sting of betrayal from the very people you’d give your life for. My name is Margaret. If anyone had told me a year ago that my only daughter would throw me out onto the street like some stray, I’d have laughed in their face. But life has a way of hitting you where it hurts the most.
My husband and I spent twenty years side by side. He worked at a grain mill, honest and hardworking, no grand ambitions—just providing for his family. He died suddenly: his coat sleeve got caught in the machinery, and he was gone. What was left of him barely filled a coffin. That was the first crack in my heart. I was left alone with two children—a son and a daughter. My son enlisted soon after and came home in a zinc coffin. Some lad thought it’d be funny to mess around with a rifle. He pulled the trigger. My boy was gone.
I was blind with grief, barely breathing. But there was Emily—my youngest, my hope. I held on for her. She was finishing school, clever, pretty, full of dreams. And when a polished, wealthy suitor came into her life, I was pleased—maybe she’d have the happiness I never did.
The wedding happened fast. Emily wanted it “just like the films”—a posh venue, a corset dress, a limousine. I emptied myself dry: took out loans, sold my jewellery, spent every last penny. For her. Her in-laws were cold, reserved. I didn’t like them from the start—they looked down on me, spoke to me like a servant. But I bit my tongue—I didn’t want to ruin her day.
After the wedding, the newlyweds came to me: “Mum, you know how hard it is to find a place these days. Why don’t we sell your flat and buy something for us?” At first, I thought they were joking. But Emily was persistent. Cried, swore she’d be grateful forever. They convinced me to sell, promised they’d sort me a place once things settled. They bought a spacious two-bedroom in the city, and I moved to a crumbling cottage in the countryside—my mother’s old place, forgotten by time.
Life there was lonely, hard. I barely knew a soul. One day I wanted to visit London—to see my husband’s and son’s graves. I called Emily, but she didn’t answer. So I went unannounced. Knocked at her door. Her husband answered, unsmiling. He let me in, but you could tell he didn’t want to. Emily was happy to see me, but he shut that down quick. She fed me in the kitchen, then said, “Mum, I’m sorry, but you can’t stay. I’ll call you a cab to the station.” I stared at her—this was my daughter, the one I’d given everything for.
I refused the cab. It was freezing, no buses running. I slept on a bench under an awning. But I didn’t regret it—at least I got to visit the graves, to talk to my boys.
When I got home, I made up my mind—I wouldn’t go to her again. Let her come to me when she remembered I existed.
Nearly a year passed. Then one day, the gate creaked. There stood Emily—pregnant, a bag in her hand, her eyes dull. She was crying. Turned out her husband had kicked her out. The one I’d lost my home for. I asked, “What about the flat?”—”It’s in his name. He put everything under his name, his mum even signed off on some renovation papers. Mum, I’ve got nothing left…”
I went to his parents. They shoved papers at me—said the flat was bought during the marriage, so it was split fairly. As if my money meant nothing. I begged for even a bit back—they laughed. Said the renovations “covered my share.”
I took it to court. But the law doesn’t side with mothers who trust words over contracts. Case dismissed. Everything was done right on paper—just not in spirit.
Emily stayed with me. Ashamed, crying, begging forgiveness. And I looked at her, feeling that same mother’s love. I hugged her, kissed her head, and whispered, “You’re my daughter. I’m with you as long as I can be.”
Maybe her husband’s conscience gnawed at him. Because after our granddaughter was born, he sent me £10,000. No note. That money saved us—winter was brutal. Emily begged me to buy a little flat in town. I said I’d think about it. But I just looked out the window—toward those two graves—and whispered, “Forgive me. I couldn’t keep her safe. But I’m here… for as long as I can be.”
