**The Lost Daughter: A Betrayal for Her Husband**
My daughter, once so close and dear, has become a stranger. In our little town by the River Thames, I, Margaret, watch with a heavy heart as she fades into her husband’s shadow, losing herself. Her blind obedience to his will has shattered me, and her refusal to come to her father’s milestone birthday was the final straw. Now I’m left with a painful question: how do I save her from herself—or is it already too late?
Charlotte, our only child, was always our pride and joy. My husband, Edward, and I doted on her, indulging her every whim. She aced university, and as a reward, we treated her to a holiday in Spain. It was there, lounging on the beach, that she met Oliver—a bloke from Manchester. I’ve never trusted big-city folk, too brash and self-assured for my liking, but Oliver seemed steady enough. He’d opened a sportswear shop in our town, worked hard. We hoped Charlotte would be happy with him.
After the wedding, they moved into the flat Edward had inherited from his mother. At first, things seemed fine. Oliver was into fitness, spent hours at the gym, and Charlotte, bless her, pretended to share his passion. But soon, I noticed the changes. She asked me not to call in the evenings: “Mum, Oliver and I want time to ourselves after work.” I agreed, assuming it was her choice—only to learn later it was his rule. She’d visit us only in the afternoons, alone, because evenings belonged to him.
Then I saw how thin she’d become—alarmingly so. “Charlie, love, what’s happened? You look half-starved!” I fretted. “Oliver’s got us on a new diet,” she murmured, avoiding my eyes. “He wants me to eat the same as him.” I was horrified. “You’re meant to be starting a family! What’s all this dieting nonsense? Eat properly!” But Charlotte just clammed up, her face drawn, her spirit dimming. I could feel her slipping away.
Next came the plumped-up lips and those ridiculous, painted-on eyebrows. “Oliver likes them,” she muttered, as if that explained everything. She looked like a stranger—a waxwork version of herself—but stayed silent whenever I tried to talk sense into her. For her birthday, I gave her a slow cooker, hoping to make her life easier. She thanked me but begged me to keep it at ours. A week later, I dropped it off at her place. The moment Oliver saw it, he erupted: “What’s this rubbish? Trying to turn my wife lazy? We don’t need it!” Charlotte pleaded, “Mum, take it back, please, or there’ll be a row.” I did, but as I left, I heard her apologising to him. My blood boiled—why on earth was *she* sorry?
I backed off, terrified of pushing her away. But her submission grew more frightening by the day. She gave up her favourite foods, her hobbies, even time with us. Anything Oliver disliked vanished from her life. The bright, spirited girl I’d raised was fading, dissolving into his demands. Still, I held my tongue, praying she’d snap out of it.
Then came Edward’s 60th. We’d booked a lovely cottage in the Cotswolds, invited family from nearby towns. Of course, Charlotte and Oliver were coming—Edward was over the moon at the thought of seeing her. But three days before, she called: “Mum, we’re not coming.” I was stunned. “Why? What’s wrong?” “Nothing. We just don’t want to break our diet with party food.” I begged, “Just pop in for an hour! Your dad’s been counting the days!” But she was firm: “Not driving an hour for that. I’ll call him, drop off his gift later.”
I choked on my own anger. “You can’t leave Oliver for *one day*? Come alone—you’re still our daughter!” I snapped. “Can’t. Sorry,” she said, hanging up. Edward went pale when I told him, his eyes brimming with hurt. I couldn’t take it—I rang her back, spilling everything: “How could you betray your father like this? You let Oliver dictate *everything*—your lips, your eyebrows, your meals, and now you’re skipping his birthday? You’re losing yourself!” She hung up again. We haven’t spoken since.
Now, every night is agony. I see the girl she used to be—the one who’s gone. My clever, lively Charlotte has become a hollow echo of her husband, bending to his whims. Missing her father’s birthday wasn’t just rude—it was a betrayal, tearing our family apart. I don’t know how to reach her. How do I make her see she’s erasing herself for a man who crushes her spirit? I’m terrified that if I don’t step in, I’ll lose her forever. But if I do, she might shut us out completely.
Sitting in the quiet of our flat, I stare at a photo of Charlotte—the real one, before Oliver. My heart’s torn between fury and despair. I want to save her, but how? Maybe she needs to wake up on her own. Or maybe I have to fight for her, no matter the cost. What do you do when your daughter betrays her family for a husband who’s stealing her soul? I don’t have answers. But I do know this: I won’t give up. Even if it breaks me.
