I know what it’s like to lose everything and keep going. I know the weight of hiding tears behind daily chores, behind a quiet smile as another dawn breaks. And I know the sting of betrayal from those you’d give your last breath for. My name is Margaret. If someone had told me a year ago that my only daughter would throw me out like a stray, I’d have laughed in their face. But life has a way of striking where it hurts most.
My husband and I shared twenty years of love and harmony. He worked at a grain warehouse, honest and unambitious, simply providing for us. His death came suddenly—his coat sleeve caught in the machinery, and just like that, he was gone. His body was barely recognisable. That was the first crack in my heart. I was left alone with two children: a son and a daughter. My son soon joined the army—only to return in a flag-draped coffin. A comrade’s “joke” with a rifle went wrong. He pulled the trigger. My boy was gone.
Grief nearly suffocated me. But there was Sophie, my youngest, my hope. I held on for her. She was finishing school, bright and beautiful, full of dreams. When a polished, well-off suitor appeared in her life, I was relieved—perhaps she’d find happiness.
The wedding happened quickly. Sophie wanted everything “like in the films”—a posh venue, a corseted gown, a limousine. I stretched myself thin: took out loans, sold my jewellery, drained my savings. For her. Her in-laws were frosty and distant. I disliked them immediately. They looked down on me, spoke to me like hired help. But I bit my tongue—I wouldn’t darken my daughter’s day.
After the wedding, the newlyweds came to me. “Mum, you’ve said yourself how tough the housing market is. Let’s sell your flat and buy us a place.” I didn’t grasp they were serious at first. But Sophie pressed on. She cried, swore she’d be grateful forever. They convinced me. Sold my home, promised they’d sort something for me once they were settled. They bought a spacious two-bedroom flat, while I moved to a crumbling cottage in the countryside—my late mother’s neglected house.
Life there was lonely and hard. I hardly knew a soul. One day, I wanted to visit the city—to tend to my husband and son’s graves. I called Sophie, but she didn’t answer. So I went unannounced. Knocked on her door. Her husband answered, tight-lipped. He let me in, reluctantly. Sophie seemed pleased, but he cut her off. She sat me in the kitchen, fed me, then said, “Mum, I’m sorry, but you can’t stay. I’ll call you a taxi to the station.” I stared at her—was this my daughter, the one I’d given everything for?
I refused the taxi. The night was bitter, no buses running. I slept on a bench by the building. But I didn’t regret it—at least I’d visited the graves, spoken to my loved ones.
Back home, I vowed never to visit her again. Let her come to me, if she ever remembered.
Nearly a year passed. Then, the garden gate creaked. There stood Sophie—pregnant, a bag in hand, eyes hollow. She wept. Her husband had thrown her out. The very girl I’d lost my home for. I asked, “What about the flat?”
“It’s in his name. He put everything under his and his mother’s signatures for renovations. Mum, I’ve got nothing left…”
I confronted the in-laws. They waved papers in my face—the flat was bought during marriage, so it was split evenly. As for my money? Forgotten. I begged for compensation. They laughed. Said the renovations had “covered my contribution.”
I took it to court. But the law doesn’t side with mothers who trust words over contracts. My case was dismissed. Everything was legally sound—just not fair.
Sophie stayed with me. Shamefaced, tearful, begging forgiveness. And when I looked at her, all I felt was that same mother’s love. I held 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 pricked him. After our granddaughter was born, he transferred me £10,000. No explanation. It couldn’t have come at a better time—winter was brutal. Sophie urged me to buy a modest flat in town. I said I’d think about it. But I turned to the window, gaze drifting toward where two graves lie. And I whispered, “Forgive me. I couldn’t shield her from harm. But I’m here… for as long as I can be.”