My daughter was ashamed of us for being from the countryside. She didn’t even invite us to her wedding…
My husband and I always lived simply but honestly. Our own house, a vegetable patch, cows—our entire lives revolved around one goal: raising our only daughter to be a good person. For her, we’d do anything. The best of everything went to her. New shoes? Of course. A coat so she wouldn’t look worse than the city girls? Naturally. We’d have given the shirts off our backs just so she could have everything—just like everyone else. She grew up bright and beautiful, excelling in school, dreaming of city life. And we were happy for her—our Vicky would have a different future, nothing like ours.
My husband, using old connections, got her into a prestigious university in London—on a full scholarship. We were as proud as if we’d done it ourselves. We supported her however we could—with money, with kind words. Every visit home felt like a celebration. We listened to her stories like they were fairy tales: an office job, a boyfriend from a good family—Daniel, the son of a businessman. She glowed when she spoke of him. All we could think was, *I hope there’s a wedding soon…*
But years passed, and no proposal came. One day, my husband couldn’t take it anymore. “Invite Daniel to visit, let’s meet him at least!” She hesitated, said he was busy. Again and again. Our suspicions grew. Something wasn’t right. So one day, we made up our minds: we’d go to London ourselves. We found the address in old letters, bought gifts, dressed in our best, and set off.
The house was grand—stone, glass, security. A polite man greeted us and led us inside. The place was like something from a film. We stood there, unsure where to look, until we were ushered into the living room. And then I saw it. On the table—a large framed wedding photo. In a white dress, holding a bouquet—our Vicky. My husband went still as stone. I felt the ground fall away beneath me.
“By the way, why didn’t you come to the wedding?” Daniel asked suddenly.
My husband and I exchanged glances. What could we say? That we hadn’t even known? Just then, she appeared. Vicky. Her face went pale, her lips trembled. I gestured for her to step outside and talk. At first, she muttered excuses, then finally broke.
“I didn’t invite you… because… you’re from the village. I was ashamed. I didn’t want anyone to know my parents were just… simple country people.”
Those words cut deep. How could that be? *Us*—ashamed of *us*? We, who gave her everything? Who worked every day without a break to give her a future?
“Does Daniel know?” I asked, barely breathing.
“Yes. He wanted you there. He even sent an invitation, but I told him you refused…”
So that was it. We were her shame, something to hide. She didn’t even give us the choice to be there on the most important day of her life. No explanation, no honesty—just erased.
We left the same day. No tears, no shouting. Just emptiness inside. How do you keep living when your own child turns away from you? How do you believe it wasn’t all for nothing? That we didn’t raise a stranger?
Vicky hasn’t called since. And we don’t reach out either. Not out of anger—just grief. What do you say to someone who threw you away so easily?
