My husband and I denied ourselves everything just so our daughters could have the best. Did I really deserve such indifference from my own children?
When our girls grew up, my late husband Victor and I finally exhaled. We thought, *Now we can breathe, life might get a little easier.* But it didn’t—instead, we just swapped one burden for another. The girls’ entire childhood was spent in endless sacrifice. We worked at the local factory—me as a packer, him as a lathe operator. Money barely stretched to cover food and clothes.
I still remember the thrill of buying them something decent, making sure they didn’t look shabby next to their friends. We never went on holiday, never updated our furniture, wore shoes until they fell apart—just so they could have everything. They went to a regular state school but looked like princesses. And we were proud of that. I assumed they’d appreciate our patience and love one day.
When they got into university, expenses only grew. There were dorm fees, care packages, groceries. So we tightened our belts again. I scraped together spare change to send them another parcel. Victor and I lived for one thing: making their lives easier.
Both girls married soon enough, one after the other. The joy was enormous—short-lived. Almost immediately, they announced they were expecting. At first, I cried from happiness—then from dread. Who’d look after the babies when maternity leave ended? My daughters insisted they were too young for nursery and asked *me*—their grandmother—to help.
I’d retired by then but took cleaning shifts at the chemist. Victor and I talked it over. He said he’d keep working while I minded the grandchildren. And so began a new chapter: baby food, nappies, sleepless nights, runny noses, Peppa Pig—all over again.
Years passed. The sons-in-law started their own businesses and did well. We were happy for them—family sticks together, after all. And if we had to occasionally slip them a few quid for groceries—well, that was just how things were.
Then came the worst day. My Victor left for work and never came home. A heart attack—right outside the factory gates. The ambulance arrived quickly, but it was too late. My rock, my dearest man—gone forever. We’d been married 42 years. Without him, the world turned grey and hollow.
The girls cried, of course. Stayed with me through the funeral. Then they took the children back and said, *Mum, they’re old enough for nursery now. Thanks for everything—you can finally rest.*
And there I was—alone. The flat went eerily quiet. No Victor shuffling about, no grandkids giggling. Reality hit: my pension wouldn’t cover bills, food, or medicine. I swallowed my pride. Suffered in silence. Until one visit, I hinted—*Girls, if you could just help a little with the rent, I might afford my pills…*
The eldest cut me off: *Mum, honestly? We’re stretched thin ourselves—the cost of everything’s gone mad!*
The youngest didn’t even look up from her phone. After that, the visits stopped. The calls dried up. As if I’d crossed a line by daring to ask.
And here I am, wondering—did I earn this? Is this the reward for a lifetime of sacrifice? Must my old age be this—broke, sick, and forgotten?
I still believe they’ll remember. That love doesn’t just vanish. But every silent day is another blow. Was *this* what Victor and I worked for? Was *this* what all that love and sacrifice amounted to?
