I wasnt invited to the wedding because I was “foreign,” but when it came to my flat, suddenly I was “family.”
My son got married almost ten years ago. His wife, Emily, had been married before and brought a daughter from her first marriage into our family. I welcomed them both with open arms, treating them like my own flesh and blood. All these years, Ive done my best to support the young couplesometimes helping financially, sometimes babysitting so they could catch a break. But with my daughter-in-law, things were always frosty. No shouting matches, just this unshakable distance between us.
Emilys ex-husband paid child support but wanted nothing to do with his daughtercut her off like a bad chapter. Last year, my granddaughter, who I adored, got married. And guess what? Neither my son nor I were invited. The excuse? The wedding was for “family only,” and apparently, we didnt make the cut. My son, whod raised her for nearly a decade, whod given everything, was pushed aside. And there was her real dadthe one who only remembered her when the payments were duestrolling around like he belonged.
It hit me like a ton of bricks. Id loved that girl, cheered her on, helped her every way I could, and in return? A cold shoulder. I thought of her as my own, and she wiped me out of her life without a second glance. My son stayed quiet, but I could see the hurt eating him up insideswallowing that humiliation, burying it deep. It broke my heart twice overfor him and for me.
A year ago, I inherited a small studio in Bristol. Id planned to rent it out to pad my pensionmaking ends meet on just that isnt easy. Then out of nowhere, Emily calls, voice sweet as honey. Said her daughtermy “granddaughter”was expecting and had nowhere to live. Could I let them have the flat? I was stunned. At the wedding, we were strangers. Now, when they need a roof over their heads, Im “family”?
Her words left a bitter taste. I havent said yes yet, but every part of me screams, “No way!” Maybe Im holding onto the past, clinging to this hurt, but I cant forgive a betrayal like that. My heart aches rememberingher first steps, the presents I bought, how I loved her like she was my own soul. Now? To them, Im just useful when they need something.
I dont know how my son, my James, stands it. How he lives with a woman who ignores all hes doneall *weve* done. He stays silent, shoulders slumped, and I watch him fade in that marriage. Now Im stuck: swallow my pride again or finally say, “Enough.” That flat isnt just bricksits my safety net, my little haven. Hand it over to people who tossed me aside? I cant do it.
Im still torn. Part of me wants to be kind, the way a mum and gran should be. But the other part, tired of pain and lies, whispers, “You owe them nothing.” That battle inside me never stops, leaving just a ghost of the woman who once believed in family.
