When I finally found a life of my own, my daughter called me mad and forbade me from seeing my granddaughter.
My entire life had been devoted to my daughter, and later—my granddaughter. But it seems my family forgot I, too, had a right to my own happiness, one not tied only to them. I married young, at twenty-one. My husband, Edward, was quiet and kind—a hard worker through and through. One day, he was offered a two-week job transporting goods to another county. “That’ll bring in some extra money,” he said.
He never came back. To this day, I don’t know what happened on that journey. One day, I got a call telling me Edward was gone. I was left alone with my two-year-old daughter, Emily, with no one to turn to. Edward’s parents had passed years before, and mine lived in another town. I didn’t know how we’d survive or how I’d provide for her.
At least Edward had left us his small flat. Without it, I don’t know what we’d have done. I was a teacher by training, so at first, I tried tutoring from home. But teaching with a restless toddler underfoot was nearly impossible.
I couldn’t take on full-time work—what was I to do, leave a two-year-old alone all day? One day, my mother saw my despair and took Emily to live with her. For nearly two years, my little girl was raised by her grandparents while I worked myself to the bone—teaching, tutoring, scraping together every penny I could.
Weekends were for visiting Emily. Every goodbye shattered my heart. When she finally started nursery school, I worried I’d have to stay home with her whenever she fell ill—thankfully, she was strong and rarely sick. In time, it was just the two of us again. School, then university.
I worked myself ragged to buy her the best trainers, the nicest skirts and blouses. I rarely held just one job—always two, sometimes three. But when Emily graduated and found work, I breathed easy for the first time in years. And then came the shock—because suddenly, I was no longer needed.
I no longer had to take every odd job. My body was already worn down, and my only companion left was my old tabby, Whiskers. Emily visited on weekends, but entertaining a lonely mother wasn’t high on her list. I felt discarded. That changed with the birth of my granddaughter, Lily.
Months before she arrived, I moved in with Emily and her husband, Daniel. Groceries, cleaning, hospital bags—it all fell on me. And when Emily started back at work, I took over Lily’s care completely. I didn’t mind—if anything, I felt useful again.
This year, Lily started school. I’d fetch her, make her tea, help with her lessons, stroll in the park or take her to clubs. That’s where I met Henry. He, too, was there with his granddaughter. We got talking. Henry had lost his wife young, same as me, and now helped his daughter raise Lily’s little friend.
When I met Henry, I didn’t expect a thing. Not once since Edward’s death had I been on a proper date—first, a child to raise, then endless work. After Lily was born, I wore “grandmother” like a badge of pride. Do grandmothers even have suitors? Turns out, they do. Henry reminded me I was still a woman.
His first message—asking to meet just us, no children—shook me. With him came a new life. Cinema dates, theatre nights, trips to festivals and galleries. I remembered what joy tasted like.
But my daughter didn’t approve. It started with a call one Saturday morning:
“Mum, can you look after Lily this weekend?”
“I’m sorry, love, I’ve plans. We’re out of town. Next time, give me notice—I’ll happily watch her.”
Emily scoffed and hung up. When Henry and I returned Monday, I was full of energy—even Lily noticed my smile. But by midweek, another call:
“Friends invited us over—can I drop Lily off?”
“We agreed you’d give me warning. I’ve already made plans.”
“More gallivanting with Henry? He’s got you wrapped around his finger!” she snapped.
“Emily, what’s gotten into you?” I tried to calm her.
“You’re forgetting about Lily! You always said you didn’t need happiness. What’s changed?”
“Yes, it has! I’m alive again. I’d hoped you’d understand—as one woman to another.”
“And how’s Lily supposed to understand? You traded her for some bloke?”
“Don’t be absurd! I’m still with her most days. Just apologise, and we’ll forget this.”
“Me—apologise? You’ve lost the plot. You won’t see Lily again until you sort yourself out,” she hissed before slamming the phone down.
I dissolved into sobs—ugly, shaking ones. After a lifetime of sacrifice, in a single moment, I’d been erased. Just like that. Because I’d dared to be happy.
I hope Emily cools down. She’ll call. She’ll understand. Because I can’t imagine life without her or Lily.
In the end, love shouldn’t be a chain—it should leave room for wings.
