We denied ourselves everything so our daughters would want for nothing. Did I truly deserve such indifference from my own children?
When our daughters grew up and started families of their own, my husband and I breathed a sigh of relief. It seemed we could finally live for ourselves—those long years of struggle for the family’s well-being were behind us. For as long as I could remember, we had lived modestly, working shifts at the factory from dawn till dusk, earning pennies, yet never allowing ourselves to complain. Every bit we scraped together went into raising our girls.
We denied ourselves in every way—no new boots, no holidays—just so our daughters could have the same as children from well-off families. I remember counting every pound, determined to buy them decent clothes, good textbooks, send them to after-school clubs. We believed once they grew up, went to university, found jobs—everything would fall into place.
But it didn’t happen as we dreamed. After school, both chose to study further, and again—pay, gather, provide. We never had a moment’s rest. Degrees, weddings one after another, then grandchildren. And back to the same cycle.
When maternity leave ended, both daughters claimed the little ones were still too young for nursery. They begged with tears for me to look after them. I was already retired but still took odd jobs—the pension wasn’t enough. My husband and I talked it over, and I quit my side work to become a full-time grandmother. He kept labouring despite his age just to make ends meet.
Two pensions and his wages—it was enough. By then, our sons-in-law had started a business together, which began turning a profit, but nothing changed for us. We still helped—with money, with time, with care. And we were happy, because if the children were well, we could rest easy.
Then everything shattered in an instant. One morning, my husband left for work and never came back. His heart gave out. The ambulance arrived quickly, but it was too late. Forty-two years by his side—and now I was alone. I buried not just the love of my life but my rock, my purpose.
The daughters grieved, of course. They cried, offered comfort. But not for long. A fortnight later, they announced it was time to send the children to nursery. They said it—and left. And there I was, alone in the silence of an empty flat, with a broken heart and a meagre pension.
Only then did I realise how bitter and terrifying it is to be needed by no one. The money dwindled—bills to pay, food to buy, medicine to afford. There was never enough. So when they dropped by, I finally asked for help. Just a little, just to cover the utilities so I could afford my pills.
The eldest replied at once that they had no spare money—loans, expenses, the children… The younger one just stayed silent, pretending not to hear. Since then—no calls, no visits. As if I’d never existed at all.
I sit here and wonder—did I deserve this? Were all my sacrifices, sleepless nights, scrimping, and caring worth nothing? Where is the debt, the love they talk about in books and films? Or are those just fairy tales?
Every evening, I look at old photographs. There we are—my husband and I, young and hopeful. The girls small, smiling. Back then, we were happy. Back then, we had a family. Now—silence, emptiness, and the taste of salt on my lips.
I don’t know what I did to wrong my daughters. But I know this—I can’t go on like this.
