I wasn’t invited to the wedding because I was considered an “outsider,” yet when the conversation turned to my flat, suddenly I became “family.”
My son got married nearly ten years ago. His wife, Emily, had already been married and brought a daughter from her first marriage into our family. I welcomed her and the girl as if they were my own, opening my heart to them without making any distinctions. Over the years, I tried my best to support the young couple, whether by helping them financially or taking care of the children so they could have a break from their endless responsibilities. My relationship with my daughter-in-law was always strained—we never had open arguments, but there was this cold wall between us that I could never break through.
Emily’s first husband dutifully paid child support, yet he wanted nothing to do with his daughter; he had written her out of his life like an unwanted chapter. Last year, my granddaughter, whom I considered my own flesh and blood, got married. And this is where it all began. My son and I weren’t invited to the wedding. The reason? It was an event solely for “family members,” and it seems we weren’t included in that group. My son, who had raised this girl for almost a decade, put his heart into her, and became a father figure to her, was deemed surplus. Yet her biological father, the one who had only remembered her by sending money, was prominently among the guests, as if he had every right to be there.
This news struck me like a bolt of lightning. I had loved that girl, celebrated her accomplishments, helped in every way I could, and in return, I received only indifference and a closed door. I thought of her as my granddaughter, but she erased me from her life without a backward glance. My son stayed quiet, even though I could see how much it pained him inside—he swallowed that hurt deep down, yet it never disappeared. The injustice of it all crushed us both.
A year ago, I inherited a small one-bedroom flat in a town near York. I decided to rent it out to add a bit to my modest pension—living on just that was hard, and any extra money was welcome. Then, out of the blue, a call came. It was Emily, her voice unexpectedly warm and almost kind. She mentioned that her daughter, my “granddaughter,” was expecting a baby, and the young couple had nowhere to live. She asked if I could let them have the flat so they could settle there. I was taken aback. At the wedding, we were outsiders, but now, when housing was mentioned, I became a “close relative”?
Her words hung in the air like a bitter reproach. I hadn’t given my answer yet, but inside me, everything screamed “No!” Perhaps I’m holding onto the past, clinging to this resentment like an anchor, but I cannot forgive such a betrayal. My heart aches with memories—of how I rejoiced at her first steps, how I bought her gifts, how I felt she was part of my soul. Now, she and her mother look at me as a resource to take and discard when it’s no longer needed.
I can’t understand how my son, my Alexander, endures this humiliation. How does he live with a woman who doesn’t value his efforts, his sacrifices, or his mother? He stays silent, averting his eyes, and I can see him slowly losing the spark in this marriage. And I find myself at a crossroads: to concede and swallow this insult once again or to finally say “enough,” to protect whatever is left of my dignity. The flat isn’t just walls; it’s my support, my little refuge in old age. To give it away to those who wrote me off when I wasn’t needed? No, that’s beyond my strength.
I am torn. Part of me wants to be kind and generous, as is expected of a mother and grandmother. But another part, the one that is weary of pain and deceit, whispers, “You owe them nothing.” This inner conflict torments me day and night, leaving just a shadow of the woman who once believed in the strength of family.
