“You’ve brought misery to our family!” the mother shrieked at her teenage daughter.
“Mum, you’re back! I missed you so much! Will we be together now?” the girl cried, her voice trembling with hope as she rushed toward her.
“No! You’re staying with your grandmother!” Anna snapped, pushing her away as if she were a stranger.
Anna had returned to her daughter in the quiet town of Ashford for the first time in two years. Her voice was icy, her eyes filled with loathing. She had left the girl in her mother-in-law’s care, and this reunion shattered the child’s heart, which had longed for a mother’s love.
“Why?” the girl whispered, barely holding back tears.
“Because your birth ruined us! Your father is gone because of you!” Anna spat, the words cutting deep like a blade.
—
Anna and Paul had been inseparable since school. Their love seemed unbreakable—they dreamed of the future, made plans, and couldn’t bear a day apart. They married right after university. Paul took a well-paying job on an offshore rig, and soon they bought a house in Ashford. When Anna discovered she was pregnant, Paul was overjoyed. He doted on her, chose the best maternity hospital, and prepared the nursery. Their lives were full of promise.
But fate was cruel. Days after the birth, Anna was ready to be discharged. Beaming with pride, Paul decorated the nursery, bought flowers, and set off to bring his wife and baby home. He never made it. A terrible crash took his life—rescuers and doctors could do nothing. Anna was left alone with a newborn.
Her best friend, Emily, rushed to the hospital, trying to soften the blow with strained smiles and pointless chatter. But the truth struck Anna at home when her mother-in-law, Margaret, tearfully broke the news. Stricken with grief, Anna stormed into the nursery—the one Paul had lovingly prepared—and destroyed it, ripping curtains, flinging toys, screaming in agony. Her world had ended.
After the funeral, Anna couldn’t bear to look at her daughter. Margaret took over the child’s care. Anna forced herself to tend to the baby, but there was no love—only hollow rage. She blamed the girl for Paul’s death, as if her arrival had cursed them.
One day, when Margaret visited, Anna snapped.
“This is her fault!” she sobbed. “She destroyed everything! I hate her!”
“Anna, stop this!” Margaret begged. “We must live for her sake. She’s innocent!”
But the words meant nothing. Anna drowned in her grief, shutting out her daughter with hatred.
Two years later, Anna found work. Margaret helped, but when Anna earned a promotion requiring travel, she asked her mother-in-law to take the girl. Margaret, adoring her granddaughter, agreed. At first, Anna visited, taking her for weekends—but the visits grew rare, then stopped altogether.
Anna sent money but never called. The girl, missing her mother, cried and begged, but Margaret made excuses. “She’s away for work,” she’d say. She even went to Anna’s home, but Anna slammed the door, refusing to speak.
Years passed. On her daughter Lily’s birthday, Anna appeared at Margaret’s door. She handed over a gift stiffly, staring as the girl rushed to her, eyes shining.
“Mum, you’re back! Will I live with you now?” Lily exclaimed.
“Nothing’s changed,” Anna said coldly, stepping back. “You’re staying here.”
“Why?” Lily’s voice quivered.
“Because you ruined us! Your father died because of you!”
Margaret couldn’t stay silent.
“Anna, stop! How could you say that to a child?”
Anna turned an icy gaze on her.
“I’ve remarried,” she said. “And I’m expecting. I came to sign away my rights to Lily.”
“You’d abandon your own daughter?” Margaret gasped.
“I can’t love her,” Anna murmured. “I’m sorry.”
She left. Soon, legal papers arrived. Lily stayed with Margaret, who became her guardian. When Lily asked about her mother, Margaret stayed quiet—unable to explain. Only much later did Lily learn the truth: her mother blamed her for her father’s death. She wept, but she never asked again. Her heart, full of love for a mother who despised her, broke forever.
A child should never bear the weight of a parent’s grief—for the deepest wounds are not those we see, but those we carry unseen.
