My daughter was ashamed of our countryside roots and didnt invite us to her wedding
My daughter was ashamed of us because we were from the village. She left us out of her big dayher wedding.
My husband, Thomas, and I had always lived simply but honestly. Our cottage, our vegetable patch, our cows, our worriesour entire life had been dedicated to one purpose: raising our only daughter, Emily, to be someone worthy. For her, we would have done anything. The best food? Hers. New shoes? Of course. A coat so she wouldnt feel lesser than the city girls? Naturally. We denied ourselves everything just so she could have what she needed. She grew up beautiful, clevertop of her class. She dreamed of city life, and we could only be happy for her. Our Emily would have a different fate from ours.
Thanks to an old connection, Thomas got her into a prestigious university in Londontuition-free. We were as proud as if wed won the lottery ourselves. We supported her however we couldwith words and with money. Every time she came home, it was a celebration. We hung on her stories like they were fairy tales: her office job, her well-off suitorWilliam, the son of a businessman. She glowed when she spoke of him. And all we could think waslet the wedding come soon.
But years passed, and no proposal came. One day, Thomas couldnt hold back any longer. “Invite William home! Let us meet him properly!” She hesitated, made excuseswork, timing. Once, then twice. Our unease grew. Something wasnt right. So one day, we gathered our courage and decidedwed go to London ourselves. We found the address in old letters, bought gifts, dressed in our finest, and set off.
The house was grandbrick, glass, a doorman. A polite man led us inside. The luxury was like something from a film. We stood there, unsure where to look, until we were ushered into the sitting room. And then I saw it. On the table, a large wedding photo in a silver frame. In a white dress, holding a bouquetour Emily. Thomas went still, as if turned to stone. And II felt the floor vanish beneath me.
“By the way, why didnt you come to the wedding?” William suddenly asked.
Thomas and I exchanged a glance. What could we say? That we hadnt even known? Just then, she appeared. Emily. Her face crumpled; her lips trembled. With a silent gesture, I asked her to speak. At first, she stammered excuses, then finally, the truth spilled out:
“I didnt invite you because youre from the village. I was ashamed. I didnt want everyone to know my parents were farmers.”
Those words cut through me like a blade. How? Us? Ashamed? After all wed sacrificed for her? After working ourselves to the bone to give her a future?
“And William?” I asked, breathless. “Did he know?”
“Yes. He wanted you there. He even sent an invitationbut I told him youd refused.”
There it was. We were the shame shed hidden. She hadnt even given us the chance to stand beside her on the most important day of her life. No warning, no explanation. Just erased.
We left that same day. No tears, no shoutsjust a hollow ache inside. How do you go on when your own child turns her back on you? How do you believe any of it matteredthat we didnt raise a stranger?
Since then, Emily hasnt called. And neither have we. Not out of spiteout of pain. Because what do you say to someone who betrayed you so easily?
