Our daughter was ashamed of us because we were country folk. She didn’t even invite us to her wedding…
My husband and I had always lived simply but honestly. Our cottage, the vegetable patch, the cows—our whole lives revolved around one purpose: raising our only daughter to be a good person. For her, we would have done anything. The best of everything went to her. New shoes? Of course. A coat so she wouldn’t look worse than city girls? Naturally. We went without just so she could have what others did. She grew up beautiful, clever. Top of her class, dreaming of city life. And we were happy—our Lydia would have a different fate, not like ours.
Thanks to some old contacts, my husband got her into a prestigious London university. On scholarship. We were prouder than if it had been our own achievement. We supported her every way we could—with money, with love. Every visit home felt like a holiday. We listened to her stories like they were fairy tales: her office job, her fiancé, Edmund, the son of a wealthy businessman. Her face lit up whenever she spoke of him. And all we thought was—if only the wedding would hurry up…
But years passed with no proposal. One day, my husband broke. “Invite Edmund to visit! Let us meet him at least!” She hesitated, made excuses. Once, twice. Our suspicions grew. Something was wrong. Then one day, we decided—we’d go to London ourselves. Found her address in old letters, bought gifts, dressed in our best, and set off.
The house was grand. Brick, glass, security. A polite man greeted us and led us inside. Luxurious, like something from a film. We stood there, uncertain where to look, until we were guided into the sitting room. And then I saw it. On the table—a large framed wedding photo. In a white dress, bouquet in hand—our Lydia. My husband froze, as if turned to stone. And I felt the ground vanish beneath me.
“Why didn’t you come to the wedding, by the way?” Edmund suddenly asked.
My husband and I exchanged glances. What could we say? That we hadn’t even known? Then she appeared. Lydia. Her face went pale, her lips trembled. I gestured for her to step outside with me. At first, she stumbled over excuses, then finally confessed:
“I didn’t invite you… because… you’re from the countryside. I was ashamed. I didn’t want anyone to know my parents were simple country people…”
Those words cut like a knife. How could this be? Us? Ashamed? After all we’d given up for her? The years we’d worked without rest to give her a future?
“And Edmund?” I asked, barely breathing. “Did he know?”
“Yes. He wanted you there. He even sent an invitation, but I told him you’d refused…”
So that was it. We were the shame she hid. She didn’t even give us the chance to be there on her most important day. No explanation, no warning—just erased.
We left that same day. No tears, no scene. Just emptiness. How do you go on when your own child turns away? How do you believe any of it was worth it? That we hadn’t raised a stranger?
Lydia hasn’t called since. And we don’t reach out. Not out of anger—but because we don’t know what to say to the one who so easily betrayed us.
