Our daughter was ashamed of us because we were country folk. And she didn’t invite us to her wedding…
My husband and I have always lived simply but honestly—our own home, a vegetable patch, a few cows, and daily chores. Our whole life revolved around one goal: raising our only daughter to be a good person. For her, we would do anything. The best of everything went to her. New shoes? Of course. A coat so she wouldn’t feel outdone by city girls? Naturally. We’d give her the shirts off our backs just so she could have what others had. She grew up beautiful, clever, always top of her class. She dreamed of city life, and we were happy for her—our Vicky was meant for more than this.
Thanks to some old connections, my husband got her into a top university in London—on a full scholarship. We were prouder than if we’d won the lottery. We supported her however we could, with money and encouragement. Every visit home felt like Christmas, listening to her stories like they were fairy tales: her office job, her fiancé Edward, the son of a wealthy businessman. She glowed when she spoke of him. And all we kept thinking was—when’s the wedding?
But years passed with no proper proposal. One day, my husband lost patience. “Invite Edward to visit, let us meet him at least!” She hesitated, brushed it off—too busy, maybe next time. Our suspicions grew. Something wasn’t right. So we decided—we’d go to London ourselves. Found her address in an old letter, packed some homemade treats, dressed in our best, and set off.
The house was enormous—brick, glass, a security gate. A polite man in a suit let us in. The place was like something from a magazine. We stood awkwardly, unsure where to look, until we were led to the sitting room. And then I saw it. On the table—a large framed wedding photo. Our Vicky, in a white dress, holding a bouquet. My husband went stiff as stone. I felt the floor drop beneath me.
“By the way, why didn’t you come to the wedding?” Edward asked casually.
We exchanged glances. What could we say? That we hadn’t even known? Then she walked in. Vicky. Her face went pale, her lips trembled. I gestured for her to step outside with me. At first, she stumbled over excuses, then finally broke.
“I didn’t invite you… because… you’re from the countryside. I was embarrassed. I didn’t want everyone knowing my parents were simple farmers…”
The words cut deep. How could we—her own family—be a shame to her? After everything we’d given up for her? After all those years of backbreaking work, just so she could have a future?
“And Edward?” I whispered, barely breathing. “Did he know?”
“Yes. He wanted you there. He even sent an invitation, but I… told him you’d refused.”
There it was. We were her dirty secret. She hadn’t even given us the choice to be part of the most important day of her life. No explanation, no warning—just erased.
We left that same day. No tears, no shouting. Just a hollowness inside. How do you move on when your own child turns her back on you? How do you believe it was all worth it, that you didn’t raise a stranger?
Vicky hasn’t called since. And we haven’t reached out. Not out of anger—just silence. Because what do you say to someone who’s thrown you away so easily?
