I gave everything for my daughter’s happiness, and in return, I received betrayal.
After my daughter’s wedding, she didn’t have a place of her own. Recognizing how much young couples need their own space, I didn’t hesitate to sacrifice my comfort for theirs. I moved out of my cozy two-bedroom cottage in a small village near Stratford-upon-Avon and relocated to my mother’s place, giving my daughter and her husband all I had. I gave up my comfort just so she, my precious child, could start anew. It was my gift to her—one I believed she would appreciate.
I raised her on my own after my husband’s passing, leaving me with an eight-year-old girl to care for. It was a constant struggle, but I had no choice—I had to pave a path for her future. My mother, my guardian angel, was always by my side, without whom I might have lost my way amidst the solitude and endless worries. Together, we persevered, year after year. My daughter grew up, completed her education in the city, and fell in love with Mark. Then came their wedding—a day meant to be joyous for us all.
Initially, I thought of bringing my mother to live with me and offering the young couple her small one-bedroom flat, but I reconsidered. My two-bedroom house was more spacious, brighter, and cozier—I concluded it would be the best start for them. I gave it to them wholeheartedly, hoping for just a hint of gratitude and respect for my sacrifice. Instead, a nightmare unfolded that I couldn’t foresee.
Mark’s mother, Susan Brown, showed up shortly after the wedding with a brazen demand: “When are you planning to renovate? The place needs updating before they move in!” I was taken aback. My home was clean, well-kept, and warm—maybe not with the latest wallpapers and designer embellishments, but surely that wasn’t the main thing? Holding back my anger, I calmly suggested, “If it’s that important, why not cover the renovation costs yourselves? You’re parents too, after all.” She scoffed, “I’m not spending money on someone else’s property!” Her words cut deep, but I kept silent. With my own funds, I did a light cosmetic makeover, packed my things, and left the nest for the younger folks, moving in with Mum. I respected their privacy, visiting only when invited, not wanting to be the overbearing mother-in-law.
Meanwhile, Susan practically moved in with them, running my former home as if it were her own, which wore on my nerves increasingly.
Before Christmas, I went shopping. I decided to buy extra groceries to share with my daughter, Emily—I wanted to make her happy, to support her. The bags were heavy, my arms ached, and I couldn’t get to my phone to call ahead. I decided to drop by unannounced—after all, I am her mother! Using my key, I opened the door and froze. There sat Susan at my old kitchen table, leisurely sipping tea. In front of her was a sheet with a carefully written holiday menu, complete with notes. It dawned on me: they were planning to celebrate Christmas together. Emily and Mark had invited her and the groom’s family over. But my mum and I? We weren’t included. We were simply left out.
The realization hit me like an icy wind, leaving me speechless and hollow inside. Why were we, who gave everything, pushed aside as if strangers? I then understood my haste with the house. I should have waited, watched, instead of throwing myself into rescuing their future at the expense of my own life. But it was too late—you can’t undo what’s been done.
How do I move forward after such betrayal? I gave my daughter everything—house, years, health, love, and all I received was cold indifference. My sacrifice turned into a dagger in my back, and this wound will never heal.
