She looked me straight in the eye and said, “We won’t have a ragamuffin for a daughter-in-law!”

At 57, I have no family of my own, no children, but I’d like to offer this piece of advice to all parents—don’t interfere in the lives of your sons and daughters. Don’t force them to live by your rules, for what makes you happy may not bring them joy.

I am the living proof of that. In their eagerness to secure the best for me, my mother and father drove away the woman I loved more than myself.

Evangeline came from humble beginnings, while my parents owned inherited farmland and properties, and they took great pride in it. When I brought her to meet them, they cast her out, declaring they wouldn’t tolerate a ragamuffin for a daughter-in-law. And she left—deeply hurt, but with her head held high.

She refused to run away with me, just the two of us, somewhere far off. She said sooner or later, my parents would do everything in their power to tear us apart.

Evangeline married a neighbour—a man as poor as she was. Yet together, they worked hard and built a house on the edge of town. They raised three children, and every time I saw her in the street, she was smiling, content.

Once, I asked if she loved her husband.

She told me she had come to understand that stability and understanding between husband and wife mattered more in a marriage. Without those, love alone was not enough to live on.

I disagreed, but I couldn’t argue—I had no right. I felt like a traitor.

I never got over Evangeline, and unlike her, I never married. I couldn’t imagine living with a woman, raising children, without love.

Mother and Father tried to arrange matches with girls they approved of, but I refused them all. In the end, they relented and begged me to choose a wife of my own liking, to carry on our family name.

But I wanted no one else. Evangeline had long since built her life, and there was no place for me in it.

My parents grew old, their health failed, and one after the other, they passed. I was left alone in our vast, three-story house.

I see my friends less and less—they’re busy with grandchildren now, with little time for me. And I avoid them, too. I’m glad for their happiness, but it pains me all the same.

On Saturdays and Sundays, I fill my time painting and repairing the swings, slides, and climbing frames in the town’s playgrounds. Sometimes I help tend the gardens of the nursery schools. I do it all freely and without payment, for I’ve no need of money. It’s my way of bringing joy to children who aren’t mine.

I sold all the land and properties left by my parents. With the money, I made donations to several schools and orphanages.

A friend once asked why I didn’t give anything to the old folks’ home. But I wouldn’t.

Harsh as it sounds, this is my vengeance against my parents, the reason I was left alone. Besides, the future lies with children, not the elderly, doesn’t it? The young need more care, a fair start in life.

When I die, my house will go to the school I attended. Let them use it if they will—or sell it if they must. What matters is that it serves a good cause.