My husband and I denied ourselves everything for our daughters, and now I’m alone and no one needs me. Why do my own children treat me this way?
When our daughters grew up, my husband and I breathed a sigh of relief. It seemed the hardest times were behind us—after all, we’d carried the weight together. Both of us worked at the factory, living frugally. Our wages were barely enough to scrape by. Yet we made sure our girls never felt less than their peers. They always had decent clothes, school supplies, and even the odd trip to the cinema.
We hardly ever indulged ourselves. I can’t remember the last time I bought a new coat—everything went to the girls. One after the other, they went off to university. And again, the expenses piled up. Their student grants barely covered bus fares, so we stepped in—paying rent, buying groceries, making sure they never went without. I learned to count each penny twice. But I never regretted it. Their comfort was all that mattered.
After graduation, both married. We were so happy—settled at last. Soon enough, grandchildren arrived—one boy each. And then the cycle began anew. When their maternity leave ended, our daughters said the boys were too young for nursery and asked me to help. I’d just retired but still cleaned part-time to make ends meet. After talking it over with my husband, we decided—I’d look after the boys, he’d keep working.
That’s how we lived—two pensions and his wages. Our sons-in-law started a business together, and in time, it flourished. We were proud. If they ever needed money, we never refused—how could we? They were our children.
Then, everything collapsed. My husband left for work one morning… and never came home. A heart attack. They couldn’t save him. The ground vanished beneath me. Forty-two years together—how was I supposed to go on alone? For a while, our daughters visited, took the boys back, enrolled them in nursery. And then… silence.
That’s when I realized—my pension was pitiful. Before, my husband’s income had kept us afloat. Now? Council tax, groceries, prescriptions… some days, I stood in the chemist, deciding between painkillers and a loaf of bread. When my daughters finally dropped by, I gathered my courage.
Softly, I asked, “Girls, if you could just help a little with the bills, I could afford my medicines…” The eldest cut me off—said they were stretched thin themselves, everything so expensive. The youngest… just stayed quiet, as if she hadn’t heard. After that, nothing. No calls. No visits.
Now I sit alone in my flat, surrounded by photos, old school projects, tiny booties I knitted for the boys. None of them come anymore. No one asks how I am. No one even checks if I’m alive. And yet, once, I was their everything—warming bottles, rocking cots through the night. I taught them to speak, to read, woke at their first cry.
These days, I watch from the window as other grandmothers walk by, hand in hand with their grandkids, laughing. My flat is silent. The bitterness lingers. What did I do to deserve this? When did I stop mattering? Do children really forget so quickly?
I don’t ask for much. Not their money, not gifts. Just a little warmth—a call now and then, a simple, “Mum, how are you?” I’d love to see the boys again, even for a moment. But it seems that’s a luxury I’m not allowed.
Every day, it gets harder to believe they’ll remember me. But I wait anyway. Because a mother’s heart doesn’t know how to stop waiting. Even when it hurts. Even when it feels like betrayal.
