Being a widow at thirty-two isn’t just painful—it’s a daily battle where you’re not allowed to show weakness. Especially when you’ve got a little one to raise and this crushing guilt weighing on you—guilt toward yourself, toward life, toward your daughter. My husband was gone in an instant—a car crash one morning, no goodbyes. And there I was, alone with tiny Olivia and this suffocating feeling that there’d be no more light, no warmth, no future. But I suppose fate decided to test me to the limit.
Luckily, I’d landed a job straight out of uni—nothing fancy, but stable. Motherhood didn’t wreck my career, but it made every achievement twice as hard. I scrimped on myself, got up at the crack of dawn, came home exhausted by evening. The only thing keeping me going was love—and my mum’s help. She was the one who stepped in back then—fed Olivia, took her for walks, helped with homework. Without her, I’d have fallen apart.
The first few years were a blur. I couldn’t even imagine letting another man into my heart. How could I? My girl needed a father, and I couldn’t even say the word “love” without crying. Olivia grew up, then came school, the teenage rebellion. We argued, made up, argued again, but I was always there. I wanted her to grow up strong, not hardened. I tried my best.
When she got into uni, I decided to step back. No hovering, no breathing down her neck. I’d ask about her boyfriend now and then, but that was it—her life, her choices. I’d had my time… Or so I thought, until a colleague, James, asked me to the theatre. We went a couple of times. Nothing came of it. I was still stuck in the past, and he was hung up on his ex-wife. We drifted apart quietly. But it reminded me I was still a woman. That I could laugh, hear compliments, receive flowers. It had been so long since anyone gave me that.
Years passed. Olivia got married, had a son—I became a grandmother. Her husband’s wonderful, patient, steady—puts up with her fiery temper, so he must love her. I was so proud. Thought my life was winding down. Then… it suddenly started again.
Daniel came out of nowhere. We bumped into each other at an exhibition—him a widower, me a widow. At first, it was just chatting. Then walks, phone calls, shared stories. He worked as a trade consultant, spent half his life abroad. Sophisticated, kind, with this quiet depth to him. Being with him felt warm. Safe. No drama. Just… like coming home.
But the moment I mentioned him, my daughter turned to stone. Olivia was furious. Everything about him annoyed her—his beard, his voice, his age (three years younger than me). Even the fact he’d already sorted his estate for his kids—to her, that was suspicious. She said I was being naive, that I was being used. Wouldn’t listen, interrupted me, walked out when I tried to explain. And yet, I never asked for her permission—or her blessing—to be happy.
She visited less and less. Once a month, sometimes with my grandson, sometimes alone. That look in her eyes—like I’d betrayed her. But my whole life, I’d lived for her. Gave her everything. Even my own happiness—sacrificed on the altar of motherhood.
A few times, I lied—said Daniel and I had drifted apart. That it was over. Just to avoid seeing that hurt in her eyes. But I’m tired. Tired of hiding my love like it’s something shameful. It hurts, her forcing me to choose—him or her. Do grown children really have the right to take away the one thing that might still warm their parents’ hearts?
Maybe we should all sit down together. Talk it out. Calmly, like adults. But I’m scared—what if it turns into a fight? What if the last fragile thread between us snaps? I don’t know what to do. Fight for my right to be happy—or let it all go and be lonely again, just to keep the peace.
For now, I wait. Stay quiet. But inside, I’m screaming: I’m a person too, and at sixty, I still deserve love.
