“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?
Once our girls grew up, my husband and I breathed a sigh of relief. We thought the hardest days were behind us—after all, we’d carried the weight together. We both worked at a factory, lived modestly, and our wages were barely enough to scrape by. Still, we made sure our daughters never felt less than anyone else. They always had decent clothes, school supplies, even the odd cinema ticket.
We hardly indulged in anything for ourselves. I can’t remember the last time I bought a new coat—everything went to the girls. They went off to university, one after the other. More expenses. Their student grants barely covered bus fare, so we chipped in—paid for rent, groceries, the occasional new outfit. I became an expert at stretching every last penny. But I never regretted it. As long as they had what they needed.
After graduation, both got married. We were delighted—our girls were settled. Then, almost straight away, the grandchildren arrived—two little lads, one for each daughter. And so the cycle began again. After maternity leave, both daughters insisted nursery was too soon and begged me to help. I’d just retired but was still cleaning offices to make ends meet. After a chat with my husband, we decided—I’d look after the grandkids, he’d keep working.
That’s how we lived—two pensions and his wages. Our sons-in-law started a business together, and before long, it took off. We cheered them on, proud as punch. If they ever asked for money, we never said no—how could we? They were our kids.
Then, one day, everything fell apart. My husband left for work and… never came home. A heart attack. They couldn’t save him. The ground vanished beneath me. Forty-two years together—how was I supposed to carry on alone? The daughters visited for a bit, took the boys, enrolled them in nursery. Then… radio silence.
That’s when I realised—my pension was next to nothing. Before, with my husband’s income, we’d managed. Now? Bills, food, medicine… There were days I stood in Boots deciding between painkillers or a loaf of bread. When my daughters finally dropped by, I gathered my courage.
Quietly, I said, “Girls, if you could just help a little with the bills, I could afford my pills—” The eldest cut me off, muttering about mortgages and how tight things were. The youngest? Just stared at her shoes like I hadn’t spoken. After that—nothing. No calls, no visits.
Now I sit alone in my flat, surrounded by photos, old finger paintings, tiny booties I knitted for the babies. None of them come round. None ask how I am. No one even checks if I’m still alive. And yet, once, I was their whole world. Made their porridge, ironed their school uniforms, rocked their prams at midnight. Taught them to talk, to read, leapt up at every whimper.
These days, I watch from my window as other grannies stroll past with their grandkids, laughing, hand in hand. Me? Just silence. And this ache—because I don’t understand what I did to deserve it. When did I stop mattering? Do children really forget so easily?
I don’t ask for much. Not money, not gifts. Just a scrap of warmth—a call now and then, a simple “Mum, you alright?” Maybe the boys popping in for a cuppa. But apparently, that’s a luxury I’m not entitled to.
Every day, it gets harder to believe they’ll remember me. But I wait anyway. Because a mother’s heart never learns to stop waiting—even when it hurts. Even when it’s dull with disappointment. Even when it feels an awful lot like betrayal.
