Last month, my daughter and I attended my niece’s wedding at a charming little restaurant in Manchester. The celebration was exquisite—every detail perfect, the bride glowing with joy, and the guests utterly wrapped up in the warmth of it all. After the festivities, my daughter, Alice, stayed overnight at my place—we live in different towns. The next morning, I found her by the window, staring blankly ahead, tears rolling down her cheeks. My girl was crying, and my heart ached.
I rushed to her: “Alice, love, what’s wrong? Yesterday was so lovely!” She lifted her eyes, full of misery, and whispered, “It *was* lovely. I never had a wedding like that. And now I never will. When I got married, there was no dress, no party…” Her voice trembled, and suddenly, I remembered the day Alice tied the knot. It hit me like a punch to the gut.
Ten years ago, I’d begged her to have a proper celebration. I wanted my only daughter to shine in a white gown, with her hair done, nails polished, makeup flawless. I’d even offered to pay for everything—the venue, the photographer, the lot. “Alice, it’s *your* day!” I’d insisted. But she’d waved me off, calling weddings outdated. I nearly fainted when she turned up at the registry office in jeans and a T-shirt. No flowers, no smiles—just a signature and out the door. Her wedding was as bleak as a drizzle in November.
That was Alice all over. In school, while her classmates agonised over prom dresses and suits, she rocked up in shorts, collected her diploma, and left. No dancing, no photos, no memories. Her marriage was the same—soulless. She wouldn’t even entertain the idea of children, though her husband, James, longed for a family. Most couples discuss these things *before* marrying, but Alice, young and fiercely ambitious, insisted kids could wait. She wanted to live for herself—build her career, enjoy her freedom. Four years later, James had enough. He left because he wanted to be a father.
They divorced. James remarried quickly, and now he’s got three kids, while Alice is alone. She dates, but every time, she shrugs: “I don’t *need* anyone.” But I see the loneliness in her. She’s always been fiercely independent, but now that independence feels hollow. Sitting by my window that morning, she admitted, “Mum, I regret not having a child. I’m 38, and I’ve got nothing.” Her words shattered me.
Now Alice dreams of a baby. Says when I’m gone, she’ll need someone to live for. But I worry. A child is a monumental responsibility, and Alice barely makes ends meet. She works herself ragged, yet money’s always tight. I can’t help her financially, and that kills me. I hold her, comfort her, but her eyes are bottomless pools of sorrow. She’s missed out on so much: the wedding, the family, the memories. And now the emptiness is choking her.
But I still believe there’s hope. She’s only 38—life isn’t over. If she chooses to, she could find love, marry, have a child. The key is not to look back with regret. You can’t turn back time, but you can start cherishing what you have *now*. I pray my girl finds happiness, that her eyes sparkle again. But for now, all I see are her tears—and it breaks my heart.
