Since I Was a Little Girl, My Parents Told Me I Was Useless and Nobody Needed Me—How I Left My Hometown for London, Built My Own Successful Life, and Proved My Mother Wrong

Author Wanda MirandaReading 2 minViews 1

Ever since I was a little girl, my parents told me that no one needed me, and I was utterly useless.

You often hear that family are meant to be your nearest and dearest, especially mothers. They carried you for nine months, brought you screaming into the world, survived endless sleepless nights, and supposedly sacrificed everything for their beloved child.

Well, perhaps thats true for some, but not in my home. My mother and I couldnt be more different if we tried. We never understood each other. Not once did she back me upevery time I got excited about something, shed promptly pop my balloon with her trademark negativity.

In my mothers eyes, I was the dimmest bulb in the box: an incapable, hopeless child destined for nothing much. I couldnt work out why she treated me like a malfunctioning vacuum cleaner. Yet strangely, whenever she needed anythingoh, suddenly, darling daughter, help me with this! Apparently, the useless daughter was good for running errands, at least. Thankfully, my dad actually liked me and always had my back.

So, I decided to leave my little hometown behind and head for London, in pursuit of a better life and a bit of personal happiness. The moment my mum found out, she had an absolute meltdown. She said just about everything under the British sun to keep her reliable little workhorse at home. But I wasnt bothered by her guilt tripsI stuck to my guns and followed my own path.

And here I am: living in the capital, enjoying my own spacious flat, running a business, raising two children, and married to a top-notch husband. All those times Mum said I couldnt do a thingI proved her wrong. Turns out, if youre willing to plug your ears and believe in yourself, you really can do anything!

A Miracle Didn’t Happen Tanya left the maternity hospital with her newborn son. There was no miracle—her parents didn’t come to meet her. The spring sun shone down as she wrapped herself in her loose jacket, gathered her meagre belongings and documents, cradled her baby, and stepped outside. She had no idea where to go. Her parents had refused to let the baby come home; her mother demanded she sign him away. But Tanya, herself a child from the care system, had promised never to abandon her own child, no matter what. She’d grown up with foster parents who treated her kindly and sheltered her from hardship, but life hadn’t been easy. She blamed herself for her son having no father. He’d seemed serious, promised to introduce her to his family, but when Tanya told him she was pregnant, he said he wasn’t ready and vanished out of her life. Now, no one was prepared to help—not the baby’s father, not her parents. Only Tanya was willing to take responsibility. Tanya sat on a bench, feeling the warmth of the sun and the weight of her future. She’d heard about centres that support mothers in her situation, but hadn’t dared ask for directions, clinging to hope her family would show up. They never did. With resignation and hope, she decided to travel to a village where an elderly lady—her grandmother—might take her in. She’d help with the garden and find work when her benefits ran out, trusting that luck would smile on her eventually. She adjusted her sleeping son, opened her battered phone to find the nearest bus, and nearly walked into the path of a car. The driver, a tall, gray-haired man, leapt out and scolded her for not looking where she was crossing—saying she’d get them both killed, and that he’d end up in jail for it. Frightened, Tanya wept, which made her baby join in. On learning she had nowhere to go, the man said: “Get in the cab with your boy. We’ll sort this out and see what can be done. I’m Konstantin Gregory. And you?” She replied, “Tanya,” and followed him. At his spacious flat, he gave her and the baby a room and fetched supplies. His neighbour, a doctor, helped list what she’d need, and when he returned, he found Tanya asleep, the baby wakeful. While caring for the child, Tanya woke and panicked at her son’s absence, until Konstantin returned the baby reassuringly and showed Tanya his purchases. He explained his history—a widower whose son was lost in a tragic accident years ago, whose fiancée vanished before he’d had a chance to help. He invited Tanya to stay, insisting she and her baby belonged. Moved by his kindness, Tanya explained she’d been adopted, her own mother abandoning her at an orphanage gate—leaving only a necklace. When Konstantin noticed the familiar pendant and revealed it was one he had made for his late son, both were stunned: the pendant held a lock of his son’s hair. It dawned on them—Tanya was his granddaughter. Her suggestion of a DNA test was waved aside. “No need,” he said, “You’re family—my granddaughter, and that’s my great-grandson.” The past had kept them apart; fate had brought them together—a family at last. By Sofia Coralova

My Husband Only Ever Thinks of Himself: He Eats Everything in the House and Doesn’t Leave a Single Thing for Our Child – “Adam, where have all the bananas gone?” I ask my husband. – “I ate them, I fancied some.” – “Couldn’t you have left even one for our son’s tea?” – “You’re making a big fuss. You know they sell bananas in shops.” – “So go and buy some.” – “I’ve got a football match—how can I go?” It’s always the same in our house: yogurts, biscuits, apples—nothing’s safe. I have to hide food or my son might go hungry with a dad like this. We’ve been married five years. Our son’s nearly two. We’ve got a mortgage, so money’s tight. My husband thinks he’s the breadwinner since he gave us a home (he only sold his one-bedroom flat for the deposit—my parents helped too). My mum says Adam’s a total egotist, and honestly, I sort of agree with her. One day we were prepping for a birthday party. I was cooking for the guests, and he kept sneaking in for “tastes”—even got into the birthday cake I’d left on the balcony. There I was, ready to slice it up, and all that was left was a chunk of decorated chocolate sponge! You can imagine how embarrassed I was. It’s a constant issue. Sure, he earns, but some basic consideration wouldn’t hurt. His excuse? “Don’t worry, we’ll buy more!” Fine, don’t care about me—but how do you not care about your own child? It’s not like we’re rolling in money; we rely on that food. In a week, he’ll eat a month’s worth. “Why are you having a go at him?” says my mother-in-law. “He’s a working man—let him eat. If you’re that bothered, just cook more.” She’s always on his side. But it doesn’t matter how much I cook—he’ll eat it all. Buying extra food isn’t an option with our bills, mortgage, and everything else. Eventually I told my husband that if he did it again, I’d want a divorce. We’d split the flat and live our own lives. He sulked, ran to his mum—and now my mother-in-law won’t even speak to me. But I’m sure I’m right. What do you think?

012