My daughter was ashamed of our rural roots and didnt invite us to her wedding
She was embarrassed by us because we were country folk. She left us out of her big day.
My husband and I had always lived simply but honestly. Our cottage, our vegetable patch, our cows, our worrieseverything we had was poured into one purpose: raising our only girl to be someone worthy. For her, wed have given anything. The best? Hers. New shoes? Of course. A coat so she wouldnt feel less than the city girls? Naturally. Wed have gone without, just so she could have what she needed. She grew up lovely and clever, top of her class, dreaming of life in the city. And we? We could only be gladour Emily was meant for more than wed known.
Thanks to some old connections, my husband got her into a prestigious London university. No fees. We were as proud as if it were our own triumph. We supported her however we couldwith words, with money. Every time she came home, it was a celebration. Wed hang on her stories like they were fairy tales: her office job, her well-bred sweetheartOliver, son of a businessman. She shone when she spoke of him. And all we could think waslet the wedding come soon
But years passed with no proposal. One day, my husband couldnt hold back: “Invite Oliver home, lets meet him properly!” She hesitated, made excuses about work. Once, then twice. Our suspicions grew. Something wasnt right. So one day, we steeled ourselveswed go to London. The address was in some old letters. We bought gifts, put on our best clothes, and set off.
The house was grandbrick, glass, a gatekeeper. A polite man led us inside. The place was fit for royalty. We stood there, not knowing where to look, until we were shown to the sitting room. And thats when I saw it. On the table, a large framed wedding photo. In her white dress, holding her bouquetour Emily. My husband froze, turned to stone. And me? I felt the floor drop away beneath me.
“By the way, why didnt you come to the wedding?” Oliver suddenly asked.
My husband and I exchanged a glance. What could we say? That we hadnt even known? Just then, she walked in. Emily. Her face fell, her lips trembled. With a gesture, I asked to speak with her. At first, she stammered excuses, then finally let it out:
“I didnt invite you because youre from the countryside. I was ashamed. I didnt want everyone knowing my parents were farmers”
Those words cut me to the bone. Like a knife. Us? A shame? After all wed sacrificed for her? Worked ourselves ragged to give her a future?
“And Oliver?” I asked, breathless. “Did he know?”
“Yes. He wanted you there. He even sent an invitation, but I told him youd refused”
So there it was. We were the secret shed hidden. She hadnt even given us the chance to stand at her side on the most important day of her life. No word, no explanation. Just erased.
We left that same day. No tears, no shouting. Just a hollow ache inside. How do you go on when your own child turns away? How do you believe any of it mattered? That we hadnt raised a stranger?
Since then, Emily hasnt called. And neither have we. Not out of spiteout of pain. Because what do you say to the one who cast you aside so easily?
