The Lost Daughter: A Betrayal for a Husband
My daughter, once so close and dear, has become a stranger. In our quiet town by the River Nene, I, Margaret, watch with a heavy heart as she disappears into her husband, losing herself piece by piece. Her blind obedience to his will has shattered me, and her refusal to come to her father’s anniversary was the final blow. Now I stand here, tormented by one 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 spoiled her, granting every wish. She graduated from university with honors, and as a reward, we sent her on a holiday to Spain. There, she met Marcus, a man from Manchester. I never trusted big cities or their people—too brash, too pushy. But Marcus seemed steady: he’d opened a fitness wear shop in our town and 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, all seemed well. Marcus was into fitness, spending hours at the gym, and Charlotte appeared to share his passion. But soon, I noticed my girl changing. She asked me not to call in the evenings: “Mum, Marcus and I just want time to ourselves after work.” I agreed, thinking it was her choice. Only later did I learn it was his demand. Charlotte started visiting us only in the afternoons, never bringing Marcus—because evenings belonged to him.
Then I saw she was losing weight—fast, alarmingly. “Charlie, what’s wrong? You look exhausted!” I panicked. “Marcus and I are eating clean now,” she murmured. “He wants me to follow his diet.” Horror gripped me: “You’ll have children someday! Why starve yourself? Eat properly!” But Charlotte shut down, her face gaunt, her eyes dull. I felt my daughter slipping away.
Soon, she arrived with plumped lips and thick, unnatural brows. “Marcus likes it,” she muttered, avoiding my gaze. She looked like a stranger, a doll, but stayed silent when 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 asked to leave it at ours. A week later, I took it to her flat. Marcus scowled: “What’s this junk? Trying to turn Charlotte lazy? We don’t need it!” Charlotte pleaded, “Mum, take it back, please—he’ll be angry.” I did, but as I left, I heard her apologising to him. My blood boiled. Why was she saying sorry?
I bit my tongue, afraid to push her away. But her surrender to Marcus grew worse. She gave up her favourite foods, her hobbies, even us. Anything he disliked vanished from her life. My bright, independent Charlotte was fading, dissolving into his shadow. I stayed quiet, praying she’d wake up.
Then came Edward’s 60th. We booked a cottage by the lake, invited family from nearby towns. Of course, we asked Charlotte and Marcus. They promised to come, and Edward was overjoyed. But three days before, Charlotte called: “Mum, we’re not coming.” I froze. “Why? What’s wrong?” “Nothing. We just don’t want to break our diet with unhealthy food.” I begged: “Pop in for an hour! Your dad’s been counting the days!” She cut me off: “No. It’s a hundred miles for nothing. I’ll call him and drop off his gift later.”
I choked on rage. “You won’t leave him for one day? Come alone—you’re our daughter!” I shouted. “I can’t, sorry,” she said, hanging up. Edward went pale, pain flooding his eyes, but he said nothing. I called back, spilling my fury: “How could you betray your father like this? You obey Marcus in everything—lips, brows, diet—now you skip his anniversary for him? You’re losing yourself!” She slammed the phone down. We haven’t spoken since.
Every night is agony now. I see the ghost of the girl she used to be. Charlotte, my clever, lively daughter, is just his echo, bending to his whims. Snubbing her father wasn’t just cruel—it was a betrayal that’s tearing us apart. How do I reach her? How do I make her see she’s erasing herself for a man who crushes her will? If I do nothing, I’ll lose her forever. But if I fight, she might shut us out completely.
Silent in our flat, I stare at a photo of Charlotte—the one before Marcus. My heart splits between rage and despair. I want to save her, but how? Maybe she must wake up on her own. Or should I risk everything to fight for her? What do you do when your daughter betrays her family for a husband stealing her soul? There’s no answer. But I know this: I won’t give up, even if this battle breaks me.
