The Lost Daughter: A Betrayal for a Husband
My daughter, once so dear and close, has become a stranger. In our small town by the river Thames, I, Margaret, watched with aching sorrow as she faded into her husband’s shadow, losing herself. Her blind obedience to his will shattered my heart, and her refusal to come to her father’s anniversary was the final straw. Now I’m left with a tormenting question: how do I save my daughter from herself, or is it already too late?
Cynthia, our only child, had always been our pride. My husband, Edward, and I doted on her, fulfilling her every wish. She graduated brilliantly from university, and as a gift, we sent her on a holiday to Greece. There, amid the ruins and sun, she met Thomas, a man from Manchester. I never trusted big cities or their people—so brash, so overconfident. But Thomas seemed earnest: he’d opened a sporting goods shop in our town and worked tirelessly. We hoped Cynthia would be happy with him.
After the wedding, they moved into the flat Edward had inherited from his mother. At first, all seemed well. Thomas was devoted to fitness, spending hours at the gym, and Cynthia, it appeared, shared his passion. But soon, I noticed a change. She asked me not to call in the evenings: “Mum, Thomas and I want our time alone after work.” I agreed, thinking it was her choice. Only later did I learn it was his demand. Cynthia began visiting us only in the afternoons—without Thomas—because the evenings belonged to him.
Then I saw how thin she had become—alarmingly so. “Cynthia, what’s happened? You look exhausted!” I fretted. “Thomas and I are eating clean,” she murmured, avoiding my eyes. “He wants us to share the same meals.” Horror gripped me. “You’re meant to have children one day! Why starve yourself? Eat properly!” But she withdrew, wounded. Her cheeks hollowed, her eyes dulled, and with each passing day, I felt my daughter slipping away.
Soon, Cynthia arrived with plumped lips and thick, unnatural brows. “Thomas likes them,” she explained, refusing to meet my gaze. She looked foreign, like a doll, but stayed silent when I tried to reason with her. For her birthday, I gave her a slow cooker, hoping to ease her burdens. She thanked me but asked to leave it at our house. A week later, I took it to her flat. When Thomas saw it, he snapped, “What’s this rubbish? Trying to turn Cynthia into a sloth? We don’t need it!” Cynthia pleaded, “Mum, take it back, please, or there’ll be a row.” I left with the gift but heard her apologizing to him as I walked away. My blood boiled—why was she the one begging forgiveness?
I held my tongue, afraid to push her further. But her surrender to Thomas grew frightening. She abandoned her favourite foods, her hobbies, even us. Anything he disliked vanished from her life. I watched my Cynthia—bright, independent—diminish, swallowed by his shadow. Still, I waited, hoping she’d wake on her own.
Then came Edward’s sixtieth. We booked a cottage in the Cotswolds and invited family from nearby towns. Of course, we asked Cynthia and Thomas. They promised to come, and Edward glowed at the thought of seeing his daughter. But three days before, Cynthia called. “Mum, we won’t be coming.” I was stunned. “Why? What’s wrong?” “Nothing. We don’t want to break our diet with unhealthy food.” I begged, “Come just for an hour—your father’s been counting on it!” But she cut me short. “No, it’s too far for just that. I’ll ring him instead and give the gift later.”
I choked on my hurt. “Can’t you leave Thomas for one day? Come alone—you’re our daughter!” I cried. “I can’t, sorry,” she said, and hung up. When Edward heard, he paled. His eyes filled with pain, but he stayed silent. I, however, rang Cynthia again and poured out my rage. “How could you betray your father like this? You obey Thomas in everything—your lips, your brows, your meals—and now you won’t even come for his anniversary! You’ve lost yourself!” She hung up, and we haven’t spoken since.
Now, every night is agony. I see the ghost of the girl she was before Thomas. Cynthia—my clever, lively daughter—has become his echo, bending to his whims. Her refusal to come wasn’t just an insult; it was a betrayal tearing our family apart. I don’t know how to reach her. How do I tell her she’s destroying herself for a man who crushes her spirit? If I don’t act, I may lose her forever. But if I do, she might pull away even more.
Alone in the quiet of our home, I stare at an old photograph—Cynthia as she was before him. My heart is torn between fury and despair. I want to save her, but how? Perhaps she must realise her loss on her own. Or must I fight for her, no matter the cost? What do you do when your daughter forsakes her family for a husband who steals her very soul? There’s no answer. But I know this: I won’t give up, even if this battle breaks me.
