My husband and I denied ourselves everything for our daughters, and now I’m alone and no one needs me. Why do my own children treat me this way?
When our daughters grew up, my husband and I sighed with relief. It seemed the hardest times were behind us—we’d carried everything on our shoulders together. We both worked at the factory, lived frugally. Our wages were barely enough to scrape by. Yet we made sure our girls never felt less than others. They always had clothes for school, supplies, money for the cinema.
We hardly ever indulged ourselves. I can’t remember the last time I bought a new coat—everything went to the girls. One after another, they went to university. More expenses. Their student loans barely covered bus fare, so we helped. Bought them clothes, paid their rent, kept them fed. I learned to count every penny again. But I never regretted it—so long as they had what they needed.
After graduation, they both got married. My husband and I were happy—they’d settled well. Then came the grandchildren—two boys, one for each daughter. And so the cycle began again. After maternity leave, both girls said nursery was too soon and asked me to help. I was already retired but still cleaning houses to make ends meet. We talked it over—I’d mind the grandchildren, he’d keep working.
That’s how we lived—two pensions and his wages. Their husbands started a business together, and in time, it thrived. We were proud. If they ever asked for money, we never refused—how could we? They were our children.
Then, everything collapsed. My husband left for work one morning… and never came back. His heart gave out. They couldn’t even try to save him. The ground vanished beneath me. We’d been together 42 years—how was I supposed to go on alone? For a while, our daughters visited, took the grandchildren, enrolled them in nursery. Then—silence. As if I’d been erased.
I realized then how little my pension was. Before, we’d scraped by together. Now? Council tax, groceries, prescriptions… Sometimes I stood in the chemist, choosing between pills or bread. When my daughters finally came by, I gathered my courage.
Quietly, I said, “Girls, if you could just help a little with the bills, I might afford my medicine…” The eldest cut me off—said they had their own expenses, everything was dear, money was tight. The younger… just stayed silent, as if she hadn’t heard. After that—nothing. No calls, no visits.
Now I sit alone in my flat, surrounded by photos, the children’s old crafts, tiny booties I knitted for the babies. None of them come by anymore. No one asks how I am. No one even checks if I’m alive. And yet, once, I was their everything—boiled their porridge, ironed their uniforms, rocked their prams through sleepless nights. Taught them to talk, to read, woke at their first cry.
These days, I watch from my window as strangers—grandmothers with their grandchildren—walk by, laughing, hand in hand. For me, only silence. And bitterness. Because I don’t understand—what did I do to deserve this? When did I stop mattering? Do children really forget so quickly?
I don’t ask for much. Not their money, not gifts. Just a little warmth—a kind word, a call once a week. To hear, “Mum, how are you?” To have the grandchildren visit, even just to sit with me awhile. But it seems that’s a luxury I’m not allowed.
Each day, it gets harder to believe they’ll remember. But I wait anyway. Because a mother’s heart never learns to stop waiting. Even when it hurts. Even when it isn’t fair. Even when it feels like betrayal.
