My husband and I denied ourselves everything just so our daughters could have a good life. Did I really deserve such indifference from my own children?
When our girls grew up, Victor—my late husband—and I finally breathed a sigh of relief. We thought life would get easier, but it didn’t. Instead, we just exchanged one burden for another. Their childhood was full of endless sacrifices. We worked at a local factory—me as a packer, him as a lathe operator. Money was always tight, barely enough for food and clothes.
I remember how happy I was whenever I could buy them something nice, so they wouldn’t feel lesser than their classmates. We never went on holidays, never replaced our worn-out furniture, walked in scuffed shoes—just so they could have what they needed. They went to a regular school but looked like princesses. And we were proud of that. I thought they’d appreciate our sacrifice and love one day.
When they went to university, expenses only grew. There were dormitory fees, supplies to send, groceries to pack. We tightened our belts again. I scraped together every spare pound to mail them care packages. Victor and I lived with one goal—to make life easier for them.
Both daughters married, one after the other. The joy didn’t last long—soon, they announced they were expecting. At first, I cried from happiness, then from fear. Who would look after the babies when they returned to work? Both girls insisted their children were too young for nursery and asked me—their grandmother—to step in.
I had retired by then 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 it began again: porridge, nappies, sniffles, cartoons—everything, all over.
Years passed. Their husbands started their own businesses and began earning well. We were happy for them—family comes first, after all. And if we occasionally dipped into our savings to help with groceries, so be it. We were used to it.
Then the unthinkable happened. My Victor left for work one morning and never came back. A heart attack—right by the factory gates. The ambulance arrived quickly, but it was too late. My rock, the love of my life, was gone. We had been married 42 years. Without him, everything turned grey and hollow.
The girls cried, of course. They stayed with me through the funeral. Then they took the children and said, *”Mum, they’re old enough for nursery now. Thanks for everything, you can finally rest.”*
And just like that, I was alone. The flat was unbearably quiet—no footsteps, no Victor’s voice, no grandchildren’s laughter. Reality set in—my pension wasn’t enough. Council tax, groceries, prescriptions—it all became impossible. I struggled in silence until one day, when they visited, I finally admitted: *”Girls, if you could just help a little with the bills, I might afford my medicines…”*
The eldest snapped back, *”Mum, seriously? We’ve got nothing to spare ourselves! Prices are sky-high!”*
The youngest stayed silent, glued to her phone. Then—they stopped visiting. Stopped calling. As if I were the one at fault for daring to ask.
Now I wonder—did I deserve this? Can they really forget someone who gave up everything for them? Must my last years be spent poor, ill, and forgotten?
I still hope they’ll remember—that not all love fades. But every silent day feels like another wound. Was this really the reward for a lifetime of sacrifice? Is this all that’s left of gratitude?
Sometimes, giving everything doesn’t mean you’ll get anything back.
