I stood in the living room, hands pressed to my chest, as Emily—my only daughter—stepped inside with her fiancé. Her face was tense, a mask of disappointment and something sharper, like resentment. I thought I knew her expressions by heart. But that evening, there was something foreign in her eyes, as if the person before me wasn’t my child at all, but a stranger with icy determination in her voice.
“Mum, you have to understand,” Emily began, her voice trembling—not from sadness, but anger. “This is the most important day of my life. How can you say no?”
I stayed silent. My heart felt like it was shrinking, something inside me snapping. I wanted to help… but I couldn’t.
“Emily, love…” I managed. “You know how tight things are. My pension barely covers the basics. I can’t afford all this—”
She cut me off, furious.
“You can’t? What about all the savings you were supposed to have? The money you should’ve put aside since I was little? Did you ever even think about the future?”
Emily and her fiancé, Oliver, had planned a lavish wedding—a London venue, a three-course meal for a hundred, a dress costing thousands, a live band, photographers, even a glittering balloon display. It was a dream celebration. Just not mine. And not within my means.
“Emily… I spent my whole life working for you. When your father passed, you were only ten. I raised you alone—no help, no breaks, no days off. I gave up everything for you, even myself.”
“And now you’re giving up on me. Right when I need you most,” she said coldly. “Thanks, Mum. Got it.”
After that, she never called. I wrote, I rang—no answer. Just silence. Or, at best, curt texts without punctuation, without warmth.
Then came the wedding day. I wasn’t invited. No one told me. I found out through my neighbour, who showed me photos online. The gorgeous dress, the golden decorations, laughing guests. And there I sat. Alone. In my worn-out robe, staring at a cold cup of tea.
I looked at those pictures, and my heart broke. Not from envy. From pain. Because after a lifetime of giving, I’d been erased. All for one sentence: “I’m sorry, I can’t.”
I remembered the sleepless nights when she was ill. The extra shifts I took to buy her school supplies. Saving for her language courses. Skipping my own medicine to get her theatre tickets. Now, I was nothing. A mother who couldn’t pay for a dress was no mother at all.
Oliver vanished too. Not a call, not a word. As if I were a stain on their shiny new life.
A year passed. I’m still alone. Sometimes I see them in town—Emily and Oliver, glowing with happiness. I want to run over, to say, “I love you. I’m here. Always.” But I’m afraid of her gaze. Because once, it shattered me. And I don’t know if I could survive that again.
I know money isn’t everything. But for her, it mattered most. And I still don’t have an answer: why did one “no” erase twenty-five years of “yes”?
People tell me, “She’ll come around.” But what if she doesn’t? What if she always believes I failed her when it counted?
I don’t know how much time I have left. But I do know this: I’ll never stop loving her. Even if she no longer wants to be my daughter. Even if she turned away.
Yet, in the quiet of night, lying awake and staring at the ceiling, I ask myself more and more: is a mother’s love always a gift? Or can indifference crush even that, given time?
