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

I’m 57 now, with no family or children of my own, but I’ll offer this advice to all parents—don’t meddle in the lives of your sons and daughters. Don’t force them to live by your rules, for what brings you joy may not bring them the same.

I am living proof of what happens when parents, in their eagerness to secure the best, tear apart what truly matters. My mother and father separated me from the woman I loved more than life itself.

Margaret came from humble beginnings, while my parents prided themselves on inherited farmland and property. When I brought her home to meet them, they turned her away outright, declaring they wouldn’t tolerate a pauper’s daughter as their son’s wife. And she left, wounded, but with her head held high.

She refused to run away with me, insisting that sooner or later, my parents would stop at nothing to drive us apart. Instead, she married a local man—one as penniless as she. Yet together, they worked tirelessly and built a modest house on the edge of town. They raised three children, and whenever I saw her on the street, she always smiled, content with the life she’d made.

Once, I asked if she loved her husband.

Margaret, the girl from the poor family, simply answered that she had learned stability and understanding between partners mattered more than passion alone. “Love isn’t enough,” she said. I disagreed but held my tongue, feeling like a traitor for even asking.

I never got over Margaret, and unlike her, I never married. The thought of sharing a life, of raising children with a woman I didn’t truly love, was unthinkable. My parents tried to match me with women they approved of, but I refused them all. Eventually, they relented, begging me to choose someone—anyone—to carry on the family name.

But I wanted no one else. By then, Margaret had long moved on, and there was no place for me in her world.

My parents grew old, fell ill, and passed away one after the other. I was left alone in our immense, three-story house. My friends became scarce, busy with their grandchildren, and I avoided them, too. Their happiness brought me both joy and sorrow.

So I filled my Saturdays and Sundays painting and repairing the swings, slides, and climbing frames in the town’s playgrounds. Sometimes I tidied school gardens, volunteering without pay—for I had no need of money. At least this way, I could bring joy to other people’s children.

I sold every field and property left by my parents. With the money, I made donations to several schools and orphanages. A friend once asked why I didn’t give to a retirement home. I refused.

Harsh as it sounds, this was my revenge—to leave them nothing. The future belongs to children, not the old, doesn’t it? The young need care, a fair start in life. When I die, the house will go to the school I attended. They may use it as they see fit, or sell it—all that matters is that it serves a good purpose.