I wasn’t invited to the wedding because I was considered an “outsider,” but when the topic turned to my apartment, I suddenly became “family.”
My son got married nearly ten years ago. His chosen one, Emma, had already been married before and brought her daughter from her first marriage into our family. I accepted both her and the girl as if they were my own, opening my heart without making any distinctions. Over the years, I tried to support the young couple, whether by helping them financially or babysitting so they could take a break from their endless responsibilities. My relationship with my daughter-in-law was always tense—we never openly argued, but there was a cold barrier between us that I never managed to breach.
Emma’s first husband paid child support regularly but had no desire to see their daughter—he had just erased her from his life like an unwanted page. Last year, my granddaughter, whom I considered my own flesh and blood, got married. That’s when it all started. My son and I weren’t invited to the wedding. The reason? The celebration was for “family members” only, and we apparently didn’t make the cut. My son, who had raised this girl for almost a decade, investing his soul and becoming a father figure, was suddenly unnecessary. Meanwhile, her biological father, who had ignored her for years apart from sending money, proudly stood among the guests like he had every right to be there.
The news hit me like a bolt of lightning. I loved that girl, celebrated her achievements, and helped in any way I could. In return, all I got was an indifferent glance and a closed door. I considered her my granddaughter, yet she erased me from her life without a second thought. My son stayed silent, though I could see the pain eating away at him inside—he swallowed the injustice, buried it deep, but it never truly left. It hurt me doubly—both for myself and for him, this injustice crushing us both.
A year ago, I inherited a small one-bedroom flat on the outskirts of our town near Cambridge. I decided to rent it out to supplement my modest pension—a little extra cash is always welcome. Suddenly, I received a call. Emma was on the line, her voice soft, almost tender—unrecognizable. She said her daughter, my “granddaughter,” was expecting a baby, and the young couple had nowhere to live. She asked if I would make the flat available to them, so they could settle in. I was flabbergasted. At the wedding, we were outsiders, unnecessary, and now, facing the issue of housing, I had suddenly become a “close relative”?
Her words hung in the air like a bitter rebuke. I hadn’t given her an answer yet, but everything inside me screamed “No!” Perhaps I’m clinging to the past, holding onto this grievance like an anchor, but I can’t forgive such betrayal. My heart aches at the memories—my joy at her first steps, the gifts I bought her, how I considered her part of my soul. Now, she and her mother look at me as if I am just a resource to exploit and discard when no longer needed.
I don’t understand how my son, my Alex, tolerates such humiliation. How does he live with a woman who values neither his efforts nor his sacrifices, nor his mother? He stays silent, looking away, and I see him slowly withering in this marriage. And here I stand, torn between conceding and once more swallowing this humiliation or finally saying “enough,” defending at least a shred of my dignity. This flat is not just walls; it’s my support, my tiny refuge in old age. To give it to those who erased me from their lives when I wasn’t needed? No, that’s beyond my capability.
I’m still torn. Part of me wants to be kind and generous, as a mother and grandmother should be. But another part, the one tired of the hurt and deceit, whispers, “You owe them nothing.” This internal conflict torments me day and night, leaving only a shadow of the woman who once believed in the strength of family.