We denied ourselves everything so our daughters would want for nothing. Did I really deserve such coldness from my own children?
When our girls grew up and started families of their own, my husband and I finally breathed a sigh of relief. We thought, at last, we could live for ourselves—after all, those years of struggling to keep the family afloat were behind us. For as long as I can remember, we lived modestly, working shifts at the factory from dawn till dusk, earning barely enough, but we never let ourselves complain. Every penny we made went into raising our daughters.
We sacrificed everything. No new coats, no holidays—just so the girls could have the same things as kids from well-off families. I remember counting every pound, making sure they had decent clothes, proper schoolbooks, and after-school activities. We believed that once they grew up, went to university, and found good jobs, life would get easier.
But it didn’t turn out how we dreamed. After school, they both went on to study, and once again—tuition fees, loans, help needed. We never got a break. Degrees, back-to-back weddings, then grandchildren. And the cycle just kept going.
When maternity leave ended, both daughters said the little ones were too young for nursery. They begged me, with tears in their eyes, to look after them. I was already retired, but I’d been working part-time—my pension wasn’t enough. After talking it over with my husband, I quit my job to become a full-time grandma. He kept working, despite his age, just to cover costs.
Between our two pensions and his wages, we managed. By then, our sons-in-law had started a business together that was finally bringing in money, but it didn’t change anything for us. We still helped—with cash, time, whatever they needed. And we were happy, because if they were alright, then 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 suddenly, I was alone. I buried not just the love of my life but my rock, my purpose.
Our daughters grieved, of course. Cried, offered comfort—but only for a little while. A fortnight later, they said it was time to send the kids to nursery. Just like that—then they were gone. And there I was, alone in the silence of my empty flat, heartbroken, scraping by on a tiny pension.
That’s when it truly hit me—how terrifying and bitter it is to mean nothing to anyone. My savings dwindled—bills, groceries, medication—but there was never enough. So when they came by for a visit, I finally asked for help. Just enough to cover the rent, maybe some medicine.
My eldest snapped back that they had no money to spare—loans, expenses, the kids. The youngest just looked away, pretending not to hear. After that—no calls, no visits. Like I never existed.
I sit here and wonder—did I really deserve this? Were all my sacrifices, sleepless nights, careful budgeting, endless love—worth nothing? Where’s the gratitude, the devotion they talk about in books and films? Or is that all just a fairytale?
Every evening, I look at old photos. There we are—young, hopeful. The girls, tiny and grinning. Back then, we were happy. Back then, we were a family. Now? Silence, emptiness, and this aching bitterness.
I don’t know what I did to make my daughters turn away. But I know this much—I can’t go on like this.
