“Our Daughter Has Changed Beyond Recognition: She Didn’t Even Come to Her Father’s Anniversary”

It was supposed to be a joyous occasion. Walter, my husband of 35 years, was celebrating a significant milestone – his 60th birthday. We had planned a small gathering at our home in the suburbs, inviting close family and a few friends. The one person whose presence meant the world to Walter was our daughter, Cora.

Cora had always been daddy’s little girl. Their bond was something special, something that I, as her mother, cherished deeply. But that bond had been fraying at the edges ever since she married Bobby two years ago. Bobby, with his charming smile and persuasive words, seemed perfect at first. But soon, we noticed changes in Cora that were hard to ignore.

She, who once was vibrant and opinionated, became subdued and agreeable to only what Bobby thought was right. It started with small things, like changing her fashion style to suit Bobby’s preferences, but gradually, her very opinions seemed crafted by him. Our conversations with her became monologues dominated by Bobby’s views on politics, culture, and life. It was as if our daughter had lost her voice.

As Walter’s birthday approached, I reached out to Cora, hoping she would make it. When I called, it was Bobby who answered. His tone was courteous but distant. “Cora’s really tied up with work, Hazel. We might not make it,” he said, almost mechanically. I insisted, pleaded even, telling him how important this was for Walter. He promised to ‘try and work something out.’

The day arrived, and with each ring of the doorbell, Walter’s hopeful glance towards the door broke my heart a little more. Friends and family came, wished him, shared laughter and stories, but Cora wasn’t among them. As the evening wore on, Walter tried to hide his disappointment, but the unspoken sorrow was palpable.

Around nine, Cora called. When Walter answered, the room fell silent. All I could hear was his part of the conversation, a mix of soft murmurs and heavy silences. He hung up with a strained smile and said, “Bobby’s mom fell ill suddenly. They had to rush.” The lie was obvious; the disappointment, even more so.

The party ended, and the guests left, but the heaviness in Walter’s heart didn’t. We sat in the quiet of our living room, the remnants of the celebration around us. “She’s slipping away, Hazel,” Walter whispered, his voice cracking. “And I don’t know how to bring her back.”

That night, we didn’t talk much. What was there to say? The gap between our daughter and us seemed to widen with each passing day, and Bobby, with his controlling ways, seemed to be the architect of this growing distance.

As I lay in bed, I couldn’t help but wonder about the little girl who would insist on staying up late to wait for her dad to come home from work. Where had that Cora gone? And more importantly, would we ever get her back?