My daughter turned her back on me… All because I couldn’t pay for her wedding.
I stood in the sitting room, clutching my hands to my chest, when Emily, my only child, walked into the flat with her soon-to-be husband. Her face was tense, a mask of disappointment and something like resentment. I thought I knew every expression of hers by heart. But that evening, I saw something unfamiliar in her eyes—as if the person before me wasn’t my own flesh and blood, but a stranger, her voice cold with resolve.
“Mum, you *have* to understand,” Emily began, her voice trembling—not with weakness, but with anger. “This is the most important day of my life. How could you say no?”
I stayed silent. My heart tightened, as if something inside had snapped. I *had* wanted to help… but I couldn’t.
“Emily, love…” I managed. “You know how hard things are. I can barely make ends meet. My pension is next to nothing. I can’t afford all this…”
She flared up instantly.
*”Can’t afford it?”* Where were all those savings you were meant to have? The money you were supposed to have put aside since I was little? Did you ever even *think* about the future?”
Emily and her fiancé—James—had dreamed up a grand affair. A London ballroom, a lavish meal for a hundred guests, a gown costing thousands, a live band, photographers, a floral arch… It was her dream celebration. But not mine. And far beyond my means.
“Emily… I worked my whole life for you. When your father passed, you were only ten. I raised you alone—without help, without a break, without even a moment to myself. 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. I get it now.”
After that, she never called. I wrote, I rang—no answer. Only silence. Or, at best, short, lifeless messages without so much as a full stop.
Then came the wedding day. I wasn’t invited. No one thought to ask me. I only found out from a neighbour who showed me the photos online. A beautiful dress, golden balloons, a room full of guests, laughter. And me… sitting alone at home. In my worn dressing gown, cradling a cold cup of tea.
I stared at those pictures, and my heart broke. Not from envy. From *pain*. From the knowledge that after all I’d given her, I was erased—just for saying, *”I’m sorry, I can’t.”*
I remembered the sleepless nights when she was ill. The extra shifts I’d taken to buy her a new schoolbag. The way I’d scrimped to pay for her French lessons. How I’d gone without medicine so she could see the ballet. And now—I wasn’t needed. A mother who couldn’t buy the dress was no mother at all.
James vanished too. Not a word, not a single attempt to speak. As if I were an awkward stain on their perfect new life.
A year has passed. I’m still alone. Sometimes I see them in town—Emily and her husband, glowing with happiness. And I want to go to her. Just to say, *”I love you. I’m here. Always.”* But I fear her gaze. Because once before, it cut me to the quick. And I’m not sure I could bear that again.
I know money isn’t what matters. But to her, it seemed to matter most. And I still haven’t found an answer: why did one *”no”* undo all my *”yeses”* over twenty-five years?
People tell me, *”She’ll come round.”* 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 one thing: I’ll never stop loving her. Even if she no longer wants to be my daughter. Even if she’s turned away.
Yet in the quiet of the night, lying awake, staring at the ceiling, I find myself asking: *Is a mother’s love always a gift? Or can even that be crushed by indifference in the end?*
