I gave up everything for my daughter’s happiness, only to be met with betrayal.
After the wedding, my daughter and her husband had no home of their own. I understood how crucial it was for the young couple to have their own space, so I made a significant sacrifice. I moved out of my cozy two-bedroom cottage in a small village near Suffolk and moved in with my mother, handing over everything I had to my daughter and her husband. I deprived myself of comfort so that she, my own flesh and blood, could start fresh. This was my gift to her—a gift I believed she would appreciate.
I raised her by myself, toiling endlessly after my husband passed away, leaving me with our eight-year-old daughter. My heart was torn with grief, but I had no choice—I had to support her. Throughout those years, my mother, my guardian angel, stood by my side, keeping me from drowning in solitude and constant worries. Together, we persevered, year after year. My daughter grew up, graduated from university in the city, met her love—Ryan. And then came the wedding—a day that was supposed to bring joy to all of us.
Initially, I considered moving my mum into my place and giving the young couple her cramped one-bedroom flat, but I changed my mind. My two-bedroom home was more spacious, brighter, and cozier—an ideal start for them. I handed it over with an open heart, hoping for a little gratitude, a hint of respect for my sacrifice. Instead, an ordeal began that I never saw coming.
Ryan’s mother, Joyce, soon arrived with an audacious demand: “When are you updating this place? The young folks can’t afford it, and the flat’s old, it needs sprucing up before they move in.” I was stunned. My home was clean, well-kept, warm—perhaps lacking modern wallpapers and designer touches, but was that really vital? I held back my anger and coldly suggested, “If it’s such a priority, maybe you could fund the renovation. You’re parents too and could contribute.” She snorted, “I’m not spending a penny on someone else’s place!” Her words cut deep, but I stayed silent. I did some minor cosmetic renovations with my own money, packed my things, and moved back to my mother’s, leaving the nest to the young couple. I didn’t interfere in their lives, only visited when invited, respecting their boundaries. I understand the importance of personal space and didn’t want to be the meddling mother-in-law.
Meanwhile, Joyce virtually moved in. She ran my old home as if it were hers, and it grated on my nerves more and more.
Before Christmas, I went shopping, planning to buy extra groceries to share with my daughter, Emma—to surprise her, to show support. Laden with heavy bags, I couldn’t reach for my phone to give advance notice of my visit, so I decided to drop by unannounced—after all, I’m her mother! Opening the door with my key, I froze. There, in my old kitchen, sat Joyce, leisurely sipping tea with a list of holiday dishes in front of her, neatly written and marked. It clicked: they were preparing to celebrate Christmas together. Emma and Ryan had invited Joyce and his family over, but not me and my mum. We were simply excluded.
An icy pain shot through me. I stood there, unable to speak, as emptiness filled my chest. How were we any less important? How could they push aside those who gave them everything, as if we were strangers? In that moment, I realized I had been hasty with the house. I should’ve waited, observed, not rushed to rescue them at the expense of my own life. But now it’s too late—what’s done cannot be undone.
How do I move forward with this betrayal? I gave my daughter everything—home, years, health, love—and received cold indifference in return. My sacrifice turned into a stab in the back, a wound that will never heal.
