**Diary Entry – 12th March**
We denied ourselves everything so our daughters would never go without. Is this the indifference I deserve from my own children?
When our girls grew up and started families of their own, my husband and I breathed a sigh of relief. It felt like we could finally live for ourselves—those years of relentless struggle to provide were behind us. For as long as I can remember, we lived modestly, working day and night at the factory, earning barely enough, yet never allowing ourselves to complain. Every pound we made went into raising our girls.
We sacrificed everything. No new coats, no holidays—just so our daughters could have what other well-off children did. I recall counting every penny, stretching our budget to buy them decent clothes, proper schoolbooks, and pay for their after-school clubs. We believed that once they grew up, went to university, and found jobs, life would finally ease.
But it didn’t happen as we dreamed. After school, both went on to study, and again—we paid, we scraped, we helped. There was no time to rest. Degrees, weddings one after another, then grandchildren. Back to the same old cycle.
When maternity leave ended, both daughters insisted the children were still too young for nursery. With teary pleas, they begged me to look after them. I was retired but still working part-time—my pension alone wasn’t enough. After discussing it with my husband, I quit my side job to become a full-time grandmother. He kept working despite his age, just to cover our expenses.
Between our pensions and his wages, we managed. Their husbands had started a business by then, which was doing well, but nothing changed for us. We still helped—money, time, care. And we were happy because if the children were well, so were we.
But everything shattered in an instant. One morning, my husband left for work and never came home. His heart gave out. The ambulance arrived quickly, but it was too late. Forty-two years by my side—now I’m alone. I buried not just the love of my life but my rock, my purpose.
Of course, the girls grieved. They cried, they comforted me. But not for long. Two weeks later, they announced it was time to send the children to nursery. Said it—and left. And there I was, alone, in the silence of an empty house, with a broken heart and a pension barely enough to survive.
Only then did I realise how terrifying and bitter it is to mean nothing to anyone. My savings dwindled—bills to pay, food, medicine—but there was never enough. So when they visited, I finally asked for help. Just enough to cover the essentials, so I could afford my pills.
My eldest immediately said they had nothing to spare—loans, expenses, the kids… My youngest just stayed quiet, pretending not to hear. Since then—no calls, no visits. As if I never existed.
I sit here and wonder—did I deserve this? Were all my sacrifices, sleepless nights, scraping by, endless care—worth nothing? Where is the gratitude, the love they talk about in books and films? Or was it all just a fairytale?
Every evening, I look at old photographs. There we are—young, hopeful. The girls are small, smiling. We were happy then. We had a family. Now? Silence, emptiness, and sorrow.
I don’t know what I did to make my daughters turn away. But I do know one thing—I can’t go on like this.
