I wasnt invited to the wedding because I was foreign, but when it came to my flat, I suddenly became family.
Nearly a decade ago, my son married. His partner, Emily, had been married before and brought a daughter from her first marriage into our family. I welcomed them both as if they were my own, opening my heart without hesitation. All these years, Ive supported the young couplehelping financially now and then, or minding the children so they could catch their breath from lifes weary grind. With my daughter-in-law, there was always tensionno outright rows, just a chill I could never thaw.
Emilys first husband paid child support dutifully but wanted nothing to do with his daughterhed scrubbed her from his life like a miswritten name. Last year, my granddaughter, whom Id loved as my own, got married. And thats when it all unraveled. Neither my son nor I were invited. The reason? The ceremony was for family only, and apparently, we didnt count. My son, whod raised that girl for ten years, whod given everything, was cast aside. Yet there was her birth father, whod only remembered her when sending cheques, strutting among the guests as if he belonged.
The news struck like lightning. Id adored that girl, celebrated her victories, helped where I couldonly to be met with indifference and a locked door. Id thought of her as my own, and shed erased me without a second glance. My son stayed silent, though I could see the hurt gnawing at himhe swallowed the shame, buried it deep, but the wound festered. I ached twice overfor him, for me, for the injustice crushing us both.
A year back, I inherited a modest flat near Bath. Id planned to rent it out, padding my pensionstretching it alone was hard, and a little extra never hurt. Then, out of nowhere, a call. Emilys voice, soft, almost sweetunrecognizable. She told me my granddaughter was expecting, and the young couple had nowhere to live. She asked me to hand over the flat. I was stunned. At the wedding, wed been outsiders, unwelcome. Now, when they needed a roof, I was suddenly kin?
Her words tasted like bitter medicine. I havent answered yet, but every part of me screams, No! Maybe Im clinging to old hurts, nursing grudges like heirlooms, but some betrayals are too deep. My heart throbs with memorieshow Id cheered her first steps, bought her gifts, loved her as if she were my own soul. Now, she and her mother see me as something to use and discard.
I dont know how my son, my James, bears it. How he lives with a woman who neither sees his sacrifices nor respects his mother. He stays quiet, eyes downcast, and I watch him wither in that marriage. Now Im torngive in and swallow my pride again, or finally say, Enough, salvage what dignity I have left. The flat isnt just bricksits my anchor, my fragile refuge in old age. Hand it to those who struck me from their lives the moment I ceased to be useful? No. Thats more than I can stomach.
The war inside me rages. Part of me wants to be kind, generousthe way a mother, a grandmother, ought to be. But another part, weary of pain and deceit, whispers, *You owe them nothing.* And this battle leaves me hollow, a ghost of the woman who once believed in the power of family.
