My husband and I denied ourselves everything just to give our daughters a good life. Did I really deserve such indifference from my own children?
When our daughters grew up, my late husband, Victor, and I finally breathed a sigh of relief. We thought life would get easier now. But it didn’t—instead, one burden was replaced by another. Our girls’ childhood was full of sacrifices. We both worked at a local factory—I as a packer, him as a turner. Our wages barely covered food and clothes.
I still remember the joy of buying them something nice, so they wouldn’t feel less than their peers. We never went on holiday, never updated our furniture, wore worn-out shoes—just so they could have everything. They went to an ordinary school but looked like princesses. And we were proud of that. I believed they’d appreciate our patience and love one day.
When they went to university, the expenses only grew. We had to pay for their dorm, pack their things, send them groceries. Once again, we tightened our belts. I scraped together every spare penny to post another parcel. Our lives revolved around making theirs easier.
Both daughters married soon after, one after the other. The joy was immense but short-lived—they quickly announced they were expecting. At first, I cried with happiness, then with fear. Who would look after the babies when they returned to work? Both daughters insisted their children were too young for nursery and asked me—their grandmother—to step in.
I’d already retired but took a cleaning job at a chemist’s. Victor and I talked it over—he said he’d keep working while I cared for the grandchildren. And so began a new chapter: porridge, nappies, sleepless nights, sniffles, and endless cartoons—all over again.
Years passed. Both sons-in-law started businesses and began earning well. We were happy for them—family always comes first. And if we occasionally helped with grocery money, so be it. We were used to giving.
Then the worst happened. My Victor left for work and never came home. A heart attack, right by the factory gates. The ambulance arrived quickly, but his heart gave out. My rock, my dearest love—gone forever. We’d been married 42 years. Without him, the world turned grey and hollow.
Our daughters cried, of course. They stayed with me for the funeral. Then they took the children and said, *”Mum, it’s time for nursery now. Thank you for everything—you can finally rest.”*
And I was left alone. The flat fell silent—no footsteps, no Victor’s voice, no children’s laughter. Reality sank in: my pension wouldn’t cover living costs. Rent, groceries, medicines—it was impossible. I couldn’t afford my pills. I stayed quiet, enduring it. But once, when they visited, I hinted: *”Girls, if you could just help a little with the bills, I might afford my medicine…”*
The eldest replied instantly, *”Mum, don’t be ridiculous! We’re stretched thin ourselves—everything’s so expensive now!”*
The youngest stayed silent, eyes glued to her phone. Then, gradually, they stopped visiting. Stopped calling. As if I were to blame for daring to ask.
I keep wondering—did I deserve this? Can they really forget someone who spent a lifetime giving everything for them? Must my old age be this bleak, sick, and lonely?
I still hope they’ll remember—that not all love is lost. But each day without them is another wound. Was this really what we worked and sacrificed for? Is this all that’s left of love and gratitude?
**Life teaches us too late—sometimes, the ones we give the most are the first to walk away. But kindness should never come with regret.**
