My husband and I denied ourselves everything just so our daughters could have a better life. Did I really deserve such indifference from my own children?
When our girls grew up, my late husband, Victor, and I finally breathed a sigh of relief. We thought life would get easier, but instead, we just traded one burden for another. Their whole childhood was spent in endless sacrifice. We worked at a local factory—I was a packer, he was a machinist. The wages barely covered food and clothes.
I remember how happy I felt when I could buy them something nice, so they wouldn’t look worse off than the other kids. We never went on holidays, never bought new furniture, wore shoes until they fell apart—just so they could have what they needed. They went to an ordinary school but always looked like princesses. And we were proud of that. I thought they would one day appreciate our patience and love.
When the girls went to university, expenses only grew. We had to pay for their halls, pack them food, send them supplies. So, we tightened our belts again. I scrounged every last penny from our pockets just to send them another parcel. Victor and I lived for one thing only—to make their lives easier.
Both daughters married soon after, one after the other. The joy was immense, but short-lived—nearly straight away, they announced they were expecting. At first, I cried with happiness, then with fear. Who would look after the babies when they went back to work? Both girls insisted it was too soon for nursery and asked me—their grandmother—to step in.
I had just retired but still cleaned at the local chemist’s for extra cash. Victor and I talked it over. He said he’d keep working, and I’d take care of the grandkids. And so began a new chapter: nappies, bedtime feedings, runny noses, cartoons—everything all over again.
Years passed. Their husbands started businesses and began earning well. We were happy for them—family comes first, after all. And if we had to chip in now and then for groceries, well, we were used to it.
Then the worst happened. My Victor went to work one morning and never came home. A heart attack, right outside the factory gates. The ambulance came quickly, but it was too late. My rock, the love of my life—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 home and said, “Mum, it’s time for nursery now. Thanks for everything—you can finally rest.”
And just like that, I was alone. The flat was unbearably quiet. No Victor’s footsteps, no chatter, no grandkids laughing. The reality hit: my pension wasn’t enough. Council tax, food, prescriptions—everything was crushing. I couldn’t even afford my medicine. I kept silent. Endured it. But once, when they visited, I finally spoke up. Just a hint: “Girls, if you could help with the bills, even a little, I might afford my pills…”
The eldest answered right away, “Mum, come on, we’re struggling ourselves—prices keep rising!”
The youngest stayed quiet, glued to her phone. Soon after, they stopped visiting. Stopped calling. As if I were the one at fault for daring to ask.
And I keep wondering—did I deserve this? How could they forget someone who gave everything for them? Is this really what my old age was meant to be—poor, sick, and utterly alone?
I still hope they’ll remember, that some love remains. But every day without them feels like another blow. Was this why Victor and I worked ourselves to the bone? Is this all that’s left of gratitude and love?
