I wasnt invited to the wedding because I was a “foreigner,” yet when it came to my flat, I suddenly became “family.”
Nearly a decade ago, my son married Eleanor, who had been wed before and brought a daughter from her first marriage into our lives. I welcomed them both as my own, opening my heart without hesitation. Over the years, I supported the young couplesometimes with money, other times by minding the children so they could breathe amid the grind of daily life. But with Eleanor, there was always tensionno shouting, just a quiet frost that never thawed.
Her first husband, long absent, paid child support but refused to see his daughter, as though she were a chapter hed torn out and discarded. Last year, my granddaughter, whom Id loved as my own flesh, got married. And thats where it unraveled. Neither my son nor I received an invitation. The reason? The wedding was for “family only,” and we, apparently, didnt qualify. My son, whod raised her for ten years, whod given everythingcast aside. And there, strutting among the guests, was her blood father, the man who only remembered her when sending a cheque.
The blow was like lightning. Id adored her, celebrated her triumphs, given all I couldonly to be met with indifference, a door slammed shut. She was my granddaughter, yet she erased me without a glance. My son stayed silent, though I saw the ache devouring himhe swallowed this disgrace, buried it deep, but the wound remained. The hurt doubledfor me, for him, for the injustice pressing down on us.
A year ago, I inherited a small flat in Brighton. Id planned to rent it outmy pension barely covered bills, and extra income was a relief. Then, the call. Eleanors voice, soft and unfamiliar, cooing about her daughtermy supposed “granddaughter”now expecting a baby with nowhere to live. She asked, sweetly, if they could have my flat. Staggering. At the wedding, we were strangers, unwanted. Now, when they needed a roof, I was “kin?”
Her words curdled in the air. I havent answered, but my soul screams, *No.* Perhaps I cling to old hurt, nursing it like an anchor, but how can I forgive such betrayal? My heart throbs with memoriesher first steps, the gifts Id buy, how Id thought her part of my very soul. Now? To them, Im just a resourcesomething to use and discard.
I dont know how my son, my William, endures thishow he lives with a woman who dismisses his love, his labour, his own mother. He stays quiet, eyes lowered, wasting slowly in this marriage. And IIm left with a choice: yield, swallow my pride once more, or finally say, *Enough.* That flat isnt just wallsits my crutch, my sliver of security in old age. Hand it to those who wiped me from their lives? No. Thats beyond me.
Im still torn. Part of me longs to be kind, generousthe mother, the grandmother I ought to be. But another part, weary of pain and deceit, whispers, *You owe them nothing.* This war inside gnaws at me day and night, leaving only a ghost of the woman who once believed in family.
