Swallowing Tears: How I Went from Mother-Queen to Mad Old Woman
In this world, I’ve always been alone. From the earliest days of my childhood. My parents were gone by the time I turned eight. I stayed with my grandmother in a crumbling cottage on the edge of a village. She was my mother, my father, my whole life. But she left me too when I was fifteen—that’s when I knew I had no one else to rely on. All I had was myself.
I married after finishing school. Thought I’d found family, found support. A daughter came—my little joy, my sunshine. My husband, though, wasn’t what I’d dreamed of. Drank too much, raised his hands. How many tears I shed over him, how many nights I slept in my clothes, afraid he’d come home late and angry. Eventually, I knew: if not for myself, then for my girl—I had to leave. Divorced. Left with a toddler in my arms, not a penny to my name, no one to lean on. But I had a purpose—to raise her, educate her, give her everything I never had.
I worked myself ragged. Mornings in a bakery, evenings cleaning offices, weekends doing odd jobs for private clients. Rain or snow, didn’t matter. At home, I wore a smile so my girl wouldn’t see how hard it was. She grew up, beautiful, while I… I scraped together every bit so she’d want for nothing. Dolls, books, a bicycle. I sewed her dresses, skimped on myself, took out loans—anything for my princess.
“Mum, you’re the best! You’re a queen!” she’d say. And inside, those words gave me wings.
Then—school, graduation. She came to me, glowing.
“Mum, I found the perfect dress! It’s only a thousand…”
A thousand! My whole wage was three hundred. But I nodded. Sold my grandmother’s gold earrings—her memory—for that dress.
She got into university. I was proud! Took on more work. Still never enough. Rent, tuition, food, transport.
“Mum, you’re earning well in Greece, right? Can you send a bit more? It’s tough here…”
Meanwhile, in Athens, I scrubbed houses dawn till dusk. Swollen veins, aching back, fingers cracked from cleaning chemicals. But I worked. Because for her—anything.
Years passed. A phone call:
“Mum, I’m in love. We’re getting married.”
I was stunned.
“What about your degree?”
“Later, Mum, don’t worry!”
I worked harder. A proper wedding—dress, banquet, guests. Even paid for her bouquet. Then a grandchild. Pram, crib, nappies, formula. “Mum, help, we’re struggling.” So I did.
One day, I dared to want something. A car—not new, just a rusted old thing. My back hurt; buses were too much. Thought maybe the kids would chip in.
“Mum, are you mad? What do you need a car for? Better give the money to your grandson—we’ll redo his room. The bus’ll do for you!”
That’s when I knew. Felt it like a knife: to them, I wasn’t a mother-queen anymore. Just an old, tired, inconvenient woman. In the way of their plans, their lives. A burden.
I walked out, sat on a bench in the drizzling rain. And it all flashed before me—sleepless nights, calloused hands, kitchen tears while they slept. All for her. And now… now I was nothing. Not a mother, not a grandmother.
I wiped my tears with the sleeve of my worn-out coat.
“It’s fine,” I whispered. “I’ll manage. Like always.”
But inside, the pain stayed. The pain of a mother forgotten. Betrayed. Stepped over. Maybe one day, when she’s a mother herself, she’ll understand.
I stood. The rain grew heavier. Hair soaked, shoes squelching, but I walked. Slowly. Straight ahead. Because I’m a mother. I survived before—I’ll survive now.
To anyone reading this—don’t forget your mothers. Don’t measure their worth by convenience. Because while you’re young and carefree, they give you their last strength. And God forbid you ever hear the same words you once said to them.
