**Diary Entry**
My world has been turned upside down, and the pain of this betrayal still tears at my heart. Our only daughter, Emily, has secretly married, and to her husband and his family, she lied—claiming she was an orphan. My husband, Richard, and I are alive, well, and have given her no reason to treat us so cruelly.
We’re hardworking people from a small village near Sheffield. I’m a nurse at the local clinic, while Richard works as a mechanic at a timber yard. We’ve never been wealthy, but for Emily, we would have moved mountains. She was our only child, our pride, and we spoiled her as best we could, giving her everything we had.
From a young age, Emily dreamed of city life. When we visited family in Manchester, she’d beg to stay, convinced that was where she’d find happiness and success. We never argued—all we wanted was her happiness. When it was time for university, she insisted on studying in Manchester. Her marks weren’t enough for a scholarship, so we sold my parents’ house to cover her tuition and rent. We did it for her dreams, though we stayed behind in the village, keeping the home running.
Emily left to conquer the city, and we remained in our quiet life. In five years, she visited us twice. We were the ones who travelled to her, bringing homemade jams and money, yet each time, she met us with coldness. As if she was ashamed—of our simple clothes, our country accents. She shared a flat with classmates who treated us warmer than our own daughter. Calls grew rare, and we stepped back, not wanting to intrude. We thought if something important happened, she’d tell us.
But we learned of her wedding from strangers. A neighbour, whose son also studies in Manchester, phoned to say she’d seen Emily in a wedding dress. We couldn’t believe it—hoped it was a mistake, some cruel joke. The truth was worse. How could she do this? I called her, fighting tears, demanding answers. Emily didn’t deny it. With ice in her voice, she told me about her husband, then added, “I won’t be introducing you.”
My legs nearly gave way. “Why?” I whispered. Her reply cut deep: “His parents are wealthy, educated people, and you… you wouldn’t fit in. I told them I was an orphan—that I had no family. Don’t dare blame me! I couldn’t admit my father fixes tractors and my mother gives injections to farm animals. You humiliated me enough when you turned up at university with jars of pickles. It’s over!”
Richard, hearing this, silently took out an old photo of Emily, crumpled it in his fist, and walked out to the porch. I saw his shoulders tremble, watched as he reached for a cigarette—though he’d quit a decade ago. As for me… I still haven’t recovered. Every day, I swallow sedatives, but the pain won’t fade. Why? What did we do to deserve this from our own child?
We gave her everything—love, money, our own dreams. And she disowned us, as if we were a stain on her new, “sophisticated” life. How do you carry on knowing your own daughter is ashamed of you? What would you do in our place? How do you survive such betrayal?
