My daughter was ashamed of us because we were from the country. She didn’t even invite us to her wedding…
My husband and I always lived simply but with dignity. Our cottage, the vegetable patch, the cows, the daily chores—our whole life revolved around one purpose: raising our only daughter to be a good person. For her, we’d have done anything. The best of everything went to her. New shoes? Of course. A coat so she wouldn’t look out of place among city girls? Done. We’d have given her the shirt off our backs just so she could have what everyone else did. She grew up clever and lovely, excelling in school, dreaming of city life. And we were happy for her—our Emily would have a different future, not like ours.
Thanks to old connections, my husband managed to get her into a top university in London—on scholarship. We swelled with pride, as if it were our own achievement. We supported her however we could, with money and with love. Every time she came home was a celebration. We listened to her stories like they were fairy tales—her office job, her well-bred beau, Oliver, the son of a businessman. She glowed whenever she spoke of him. And all we could think was, *When will the wedding be?*
But years passed, and no proposal came. Finally, my husband couldn’t take it anymore. *”Invite Oliver to visit, let’s meet him properly!”* She hesitated, made excuses—too busy, another time. Suspicion grew. Something wasn’t right. So one day, we decided: we’d go to London ourselves. We found the address in old letters, packed some gifts, dressed in our best, and set off.
The house was enormous—brick, glass, security at the gate. A polite man greeted us and led us inside. The place was like something from a film, all luxury. We stood there awkwardly until we were ushered into the sitting room. And then I saw it—on the table, a large framed wedding photo. In white, holding a bouquet, stood our Emily. My husband went still as stone. I felt the ground tilt beneath me.
*”Why didn’t you come to the wedding, by the way?”* Oliver asked suddenly.
We exchanged glances. What should we say? That we hadn’t even known? Then she appeared—Emily. Her face paled, her lips trembled. I motioned for her to step outside with me. At first, she stammered, but then the truth came out.
*”I didn’t invite you… because… you’re country folk. I was ashamed. I didn’t want anyone to know my parents were simple villagers…”*
Those words cut deep. How could she? *Ashamed* of *us?* The ones who gave up everything for her? Who worked without rest so she could have a future?
*”And Oliver?”* I asked, barely breathing. *”Did he know?”*
*”Yes. He wanted you there. He even sent invitations, but I told him you’d refused…”*
So that was it. We were her dirty secret, erased from her new life. Denied even the chance to stand by her on the most important day. No explanation, no honesty—just discarded.
We left that same day. No tears, no shouting. Only numbness. How do you go on when your own child turns away? How do you believe it was all worth it when the one you raised denies you so easily?
Emily hasn’t called since. And we’ve stayed silent—not out of bitterness, but because there are no words for the pain of being forgotten by the one you loved most.
Sometimes, the deepest wounds come not from strangers, but from those who should have held you closest.
