Last month, my daughter and I attended my niece’s wedding at a cosy restaurant in Manchester. It was a splendid affair—every detail perfected, the bride glowing with joy, and the guests basking in the warmth of celebration. Afterwards, my daughter, Emily, stayed overnight at mine—we live in different towns. The next morning, I found her by the window, staring blankly, tears streaming down her cheeks. My girl was crying, and my heart ached.
I rushed to her: “Em, love, what’s wrong? Yesterday was lovely!” She lifted her eyes, brimming with sorrow, and whispered, “Yes, the wedding was perfect. I never had one like that. And I never will. When I got married, there was no dress, no party…” Her voice trembled, and suddenly, I remembered her wedding day. It hit me like a gut punch.
Ten years ago, I’d begged her to have a proper celebration. I wanted my only daughter to shine in a white gown, with styled hair, manicured nails, and professional makeup. I was ready to pay for everything—from the reception to the photographer. “Emily, it’s your day!” I insisted. But she brushed me off, calling weddings outdated. I was horrified when she turned up at the registry office in jeans and a T-shirt. No flowers, no smiles—just a signature, and it was over. Her wedding was as bleak as a November drizzle.
That was Emily all over. At school, while her classmates agonised over prom outfits, she collected her diploma in shorts and left without a second glance. No dances, no memories. Her marriage was the same—soulless. She refused to even discuss children, though her husband, James, longed for a family. Usually, these things get settled *before* tying the knot, but Emily, young and fiercely ambitious, thought kids could wait. She wanted to live for herself, climb the career ladder, savour her freedom. Four years in, James had enough—he left, desperate to be a father.
They divorced. James remarried soon after and now has three children, while Emily remains alone. She dates but always says, “I don’t need anyone.” Yet I see the loneliness weighing on her. She’s always been stubbornly 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 Emily dreams of a baby. She says when I’m gone, she’ll have someone to live for. But I worry—children are a lifetime’s responsibility, and Emily barely makes ends meet. She works herself ragged, yet money’s always tight. I can’t help her financially, and it tears me apart. I hold her, comfort her, but her eyes are pools of sadness. She’s missed so much: the wedding, the family, the warmth. Now the emptiness suffocates her.
But I still believe she has a chance. She’s only 38—life isn’t over yet. If she chooses, she could find love, marry, have a child. The key is not to dwell on regrets. Time lost can’t be reclaimed, but she can learn to cherish what’s here and 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.
