Our Daughter Was Ashamed of Us and Didnt Invite Us to the Wedding
Ive carried this sorrow in my heart for years, and now I must speak of it. Our own daughter was ashamed of us for being country folk. She didnt even invite us to her wedding
My husband and I lived simply but with pride. Our cottage, the vegetable garden, the cows, the daily toilour whole world revolved around one purpose: raising our only daughter to be a woman of worth. For her, we would have done anything. The best was always for Emily. New shoes? Of course. A coat so she wouldnt feel outdone by the city girls? Without question. We scraped together what little we had so shed want for nothing. She grew up lovely and bright, with fine marks at school, dreaming of life in London. And we rejoicedour Emily was meant for more than wed known.
Through an old friends kindness, my husband secured her a place at a respected university in London. A public course, no less. We swelled with pride as if it were our own triumph. We supported her as best we couldwith what little money we had, and with all our hearts. Every visit home was a celebration. We listened to her tales like they were fairy stories: her office job, her well-to-do sweetheartWilliam, the son of a wealthy merchant. Her eyes shone when she spoke of him. And we thoughtperhaps the wedding bells would ring soon
But the years passed, and no proposal came. At last, my husband could bear it no longer. “Invite William to visit, at least let us meet him!” She hesitated, made excuses about work. Once, then again. Our doubts grew. Something wasnt right. So we decided, my husband and I, to go to London ourselves. We found the address among old letters, bought sweets, dressed in our Sunday best, and set off.
The house was grandstone, glass, a gatekeeper. A kind man led us inside, through halls fit for a lord. We stood frozen, unsure where to look, until we were shown to the parlour. And there we saw it. On the table, a great framed wedding portrait. In white lace, holding a bouquetour Emily. My husband turned to stone. I felt the floor drop away beneath me.
“Why didnt you come to the wedding?” William asked suddenly.
We exchanged glances. What could we say? That we hadnt known? Then she appeared. Emily. Her face went pale, her lips trembled. With a glance, I asked her to step outside. At first, she fumbled for words, but at last, she confessed:
“I didnt invite you because youre from the country. I was ashamed. I didnt want everyone to know my parents were simple villagers”
That word pierced my heart like a knife. How could it be? Us? Ashamed of us? We who gave her everything? Who worked ourselves to the bone so she might have a future?
“And William?” I asked, barely breathing. “Did he know?”
“Yes. He wanted you there. He even sent an invitation, but I told him youd refused”
And so it was. We were the shame she hid. She never gave us the chance to stand beside her on the most important day of her life. She never told us, never explainedjust erased us.
We left that same day. No tears, no shouting. Just a hollow ache in our souls. How do you go on when your own flesh and blood turns away? How do you believe it wasnt all for nothing? That we didnt raise a stranger?
Since then, Emily hasnt called. And weve stayed silentnot out of spite, but sorrow. For what can you say to someone who betrayed you so easily?
