Swallowing Tears: How I Went from Mother-Queen to the Mad Old Woman
In this world, I’ve always been alone. From the very beginning. My parents were gone by the time I turned eight. I stayed with my grandmother in a tiny house on the edge of a village. She was my mother, my father, my whole life. But she left me too when I was fifteen—that’s when I knew I had no one left to rely on. All I had was myself.
After finishing middle school, I got married. I thought I’d found a family, someone to lean on. Then came my daughter—my little joy, my sunshine. My husband, though, wasn’t what I’d dreamed of. He drank, raised his hands. I cried so many tears over him, spent so many nights sleeping in my clothes, afraid he’d come home late and angry. One day, I realised: if not for me, then for my girl, I had to leave. I divorced him. Just me and my little one, penniless and alone. But I had a goal—to raise her, educate her, give her everything I never had.
I worked myself to the bone. Mornings in a bakery, evenings cleaning offices, weekends taking odd jobs. Rain or snow, it didn’t matter. At home, I smiled so she’d never see how hard it was. She grew up, beautiful and bright, and I? I scraped and saved so she’d want for nothing. Dolls, books, a bicycle. I sewed her dresses, skipped meals, took out loans—all so my princess could have it all.
“Mum, you’re the best! You’re my queen!” she’d say, and those words made my heart soar.
School, then prom. She rushed to me, glowing with excitement.
“Mum, I found the perfect dress! Only a thousand quid!”
A thousand? My whole wages came to three hundred. I nodded anyway. Sold my grandmother’s gold earrings—her last gift to me—for that dress.
University came next. I was so proud! I took on more work, but money still ran short. Rent, tuition, food, bus fares.
“Mum, you earn well in Greece, right? Could you send a bit more? It’s tough here…”
Meanwhile, I scrubbed floors in Athens from dawn till dusk. Swollen veins, an aching back, fingers cracked from bleach. I worked. Because for her, I’d do anything.
Years passed. Then the call came.
“Mum, I’m in love. We’re getting married.”
I was stunned.
“What about your degree? Your future?”
“Later, Mum, don’t worry!”
Again, I pushed myself. I wanted her wedding to be perfect—dress, reception, the works. Even paid for her bouquet. Then came a grandson. Pram, cot, nappies, formula. “Mum, we’re struggling—help.” And I did.
Then I dared to dream. A car—nothing fancy, just something old. My back ached; buses were exhausting. Maybe the kids could help?
“Mum, are you mad? What do you need a car for? Better spend it on the baby’s room—you’ll manage with buses!”
That’s when I knew. The truth cut deep: to them, I wasn’t the mother-queen anymore. Just an old, tired nuisance. In their way, cramping their style, their lives. A burden.
I walked out into the drizzle and sat on a bench. My whole life flashed by—sleepless nights, blistered hands, silent tears in the kitchen while they slept. All for her. And now? Now I was nothing. Not a mother. Not a grandmother. Just forgotten.
I wiped my tears with the sleeve of my worn-out coat.
“It’s fine,” I whispered. “I’ll manage. Like always.”
But inside, the ache remained. The pain of a mother betrayed. Cast aside. And I wondered—maybe when she becomes a mother herself, she’ll understand.
I stood. The rain fell harder. My hair clung wet, my shoes squelched, but I walked. Slowly. Straight ahead. Because I’m a mother. I survived before—I’ll survive now.
And to you reading this, remember: don’t forget your mothers. Don’t measure their worth by convenience. While you’re young and carefree, they give you their last strength. And when your turn comes—God forbid you hear the same words you once said to them.
