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

At fifty-seven, I have no family or children of my own, yet I wish to offer advice to all parents—do not meddle in the lives of your sons and daughters, nor force them to live by your rules. What brings you joy may not bring them the same.

I am the living proof of this. In their eagerness to secure the best for me, my mother and father tore me apart from the woman I loved more than myself.

Elizabeth came from a humble household, while my parents boasted inherited fields and properties. When I brought her to meet them, they turned her away at once, declaring they would not tolerate a pauper for a daughter-in-law. She left—wounded, but with her head held high.

She refused to run away with me, just the two of us. She believed my family would stop at nothing to separate us sooner or later.

Instead, she married a neighbour—a man as penniless as she. Yet they worked hard, side by side, and built a house at the edge of town. They raised three children, and whenever I saw her in the street, she was always smiling, always content.

Once, I asked if she loved her husband.

Elizabeth, who had come from nothing, replied that she had learned stability and understanding between spouses mattered most. Without them, love alone could not sustain a family.

I disagreed, yet I had no right to argue. I felt like a traitor.

I never stopped grieving Elizabeth, and unlike her, I never married. The thought of living with a woman, raising children without love, was unthinkable.

My mother and father tried to match me with girls they approved of, girls they deemed suitable. I refused them all.

Eventually, they relented and begged me to choose a wife of my own liking, if only to carry on our name. But I wanted no one else. Elizabeth had long since built her life, and I had no place in it.

My parents grew old, then ill, and one after the other, they passed. I was left alone in our vast, three-storey house.

I meet friends less often now—they are busy with grandchildren and have little time for me. I avoid them, too. Their happiness brings me joy, yet it also carries a sting.

On weekends, I fill my hours painting and mending the swings, slides, and climbing frames in the town’s playgrounds. Sometimes, I help tidy the gardens of nursery schools. I do it all willingly, without pay, for I have no need of money. This is how I bring happiness to other people’s children and grandchildren.

I sold every field and property left by my parents and donated the sum to several schools and orphanages.

A friend once asked why I did not give to nursing homes as well. But I would not.

However harsh it may sound, this is how I take my revenge on the parents who left me alone.

Besides, the future lies with children, not the elderly, does it not? The young need care, a fair start in life.

When I die, my house will go to the school I once attended. Let them use it as they see fit—or sell it if they must.

What matters is that it serves a good cause.