“You Betrayed Dad”: How Children Denied Their Mother Happiness
My name is Helen, and I’m forty-five. An age where much seems behind you, yet so much still lies ahead. It was at this age my childhood friend, Margaret, faced the hardest choice of her life: love… or her own children.
Margaret was widowed young—her husband died in a car crash when their son was just twelve and their daughter ten. All those years, she carried the weight of the household—work, parenting, illnesses, school troubles, teenage rebellion—without complaint. Through sheer strength, willpower, and patience. And through devotion, something almost sacred to her.
She never remarried, never dated, never even let herself imagine another man by her side. All for the memory of her husband. All for the children. Margaret forbade herself the luxury of feeling. When friends gently hinted that she was still young, that life wasn’t over, she’d wave them off:
“Not for me. I have the children.”
Now, nearly a decade later, with both children grown—off at university, seemingly past needing daily maternal care—Margaret met *Him*.
Edward. A man from the next town over, an engineer, a widower who’d raised his own son. Reserved, intelligent, quiet—but steady as stone. He courted Margaret without pressure, but with genuine tenderness. Flowers for no reason, books, long walks that held not an ounce of impropriety—just warmth and respect.
When he proposed, Margaret wept. From joy. From fear. From guilt toward the husband who would never return. She had endured so many years alone that she never believed another could love her—a woman with a past, with children, with deep sorrow in her eyes. Yet Edward did. And he asked her to begin again.
She didn’t say “yes” at once. She was afraid. Not for herself—but for the children’s reaction.
When she sat her daughter down, the girl stared at her like she was a stranger:
“So you never loved him at all. If you can just… forget him and marry someone else. You betrayed Dad!”
Her son was no gentler:
“Don’t even think about bringing some random bloke into this house. Not while I’m alive.”
Their words struck like a slap. No—worse. Margaret never imagined the people she had sacrificed everything for would turn their backs on her.
She didn’t sleep that night. Sat in the kitchen with a cold cup of tea. Cried not from hurt—from despair. The choice before her would define her future, and neither path led to happiness.
If she accepted Edward, she’d lose her children. Her daughter would cut her off; her son wouldn’t attend the wedding. They’d said as much. But if she stayed—she betrayed herself. Sentenced herself to a lonely old age, without love, without someone beside her.
The children would move on. Build their own families. Eventually, they’d have no time for her. And who then would be there in sickness, melancholy, old age?
But most of all—how could anyone demand a mother remain a widow forever? How could love be called betrayal?
Margaret didn’t want to forget her husband. She never would. But had her life truly ended the day his did? Couldn’t love take different forms? Couldn’t happiness come twice?
Now Edward waits for her answer. He doesn’t push, doesn’t rush. But he’s human too. He doesn’t want to be “a secret.” He wants a wife, a home, a family. And he’s not twenty. He won’t wait forever.
Margaret stands on the edge. One step—and there’s no turning back. But every choice is a risk. Losing her children. Or losing herself.
I watch her, helpless. And deep down, I ask myself the terrifying question: What would I choose in her place?
What about you? Would you choose life… or wait for someone else’s permission?