We denied ourselves everything so our daughters would want for nothing. Did I deserve such indifference from my own children?
When our girls grew up and started families of their own, my husband and I breathed a sigh of relief. At last, it seemed we could live for ourselves—after years of struggle, our family’s future was secure. For as long as I can remember, we lived modestly, working shifts at the factory, earning barely enough. Yet we never complained. Every penny went to our girls.
We denied ourselves everything—no new coats, no holidays—just so our daughters could have what other well-off children did. I remember counting every pound, stretching budgets to buy them decent clothes, books, sending them to after-school clubs. We believed once they finished school, went to university, found jobs—life would finally ease.
But things didn’t go as planned. After school, both went off to study, and again, it was us footing the bills—tuition, weddings one after the other, then grandchildren. Back into the same cycle.
When their maternity leave ended, both daughters pleaded with me—the little ones were too young for nursery, could I look after them? I’d retired, but even my pension wasn’t enough, so I’d taken odd jobs. After talking it over with my husband, I quit to become a full-time grandmother. He kept working despite his age, just to keep us afloat.
Between our two pensions and his wages, we managed. By then, the boys—their husbands—had started a business that did well, but it never lightened our load. We still helped—money, time, care. And we were happy, because if the children were fine, so were we.
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 together—and now I was alone. I buried not just the man I loved, but my anchor, my purpose.
The girls grieved, of course. Cried, comforted me. But it didn’t last. Two weeks later, they announced it was time to enrol the children in nursery. And just like that, they were gone. I was left—silence, an empty flat, a broken heart, and a pittance of a pension.
That’s when I realised how bitter it is to be unwanted. The money dwindled—bills, food, medicine. I barely scraped by. So when they visited, I swallowed my pride and asked for help. Just enough to cover the essentials, maybe my prescription.
The eldest snapped back—money was tight, loans, the kids… The youngest just stayed quiet, pretending not to hear. Since then, nothing. No calls, no visits. As if I’d never existed.
I sit here and wonder—did I deserve this? Were all those sleepless nights, the sacrifices, the careful pennies, worth nothing? Where’s the debt, the love they talk about in books? Or was it all just lies?
Every evening, I look at old photos. Us—young, hopeful. The girls small, smiling. Back then, we were happy. Back then, we had a family. Now? Silence. Emptiness. And regret.
I don’t know what I did wrong. But I know this—I can’t go on like this.
