**Diary Entry**
All these years, I gave everything to my daughter, then to my granddaughter. But it seems they’ve forgotten I deserve happiness too, not just a life revolving around them. I married young—just twenty-one. My husband, James, was a quiet, hardworking man, the kind who never complained. One day, he was offered a week-long haulage job in another county—good money, they said.
He never came back. To this day, I don’t know what happened on that trip. Just a phone call telling me he was gone. Left alone with two-year-old Emily, I was lost. His parents had passed, mine lived miles away in Sheffield. I didn’t know how we’d manage.
At least James’s small flat became ours. Without it, God knows where we’d have ended up. I trained as a teacher, tried tutoring from home, but with a toddler underfoot, it was impossible. Full-time work? Out of the question. Who’d leave a two-year-old alone all day?
Then Mum visited, took one look at me, and whisked Emily away. For nearly two years, my girl lived with her grandparents while I worked myself ragged—teaching, weekend shifts, private lessons. I spent every penny on train tickets to see her. Every goodbye shattered me.
Eventually, nursery spots opened. Miraculously, Emily stayed healthy. School came, then uni. I juggled two, sometimes three jobs—for her trainers, her school blazers, the little luxuries. When she graduated and landed her own job, I finally breathed. And that’s when it hit me: *I was no longer needed.*
My body ached from years of grind. Friends? Just Misty, my tabby cat. Emily visited sometimes, but filling an entire day with her lonely mum clearly wasn’t a priority. Then my granddaughter Lily arrived. Months before her birth, I moved in with Emily and her husband, Mark. Shopping, cleaning, hospital bags—all me. Once Emily returned to work, Lily became my world. I *wanted* this. Needed it.
This year, Lily started primary school. I’d pick her up, feed her, help with spelling, take her to the park or ballet. That’s where I met Henry. Another grandparent, widowed young like me, helping his daughter raise her little one.
I never expected anything. Not once since James died had I been on a date. First motherhood, then survival. After Lily, I was just “Gran.” Do grans even *have* suitors? Turns out, they do. Henry made me remember I was still a woman.
His first text—*Fancy a coffee, just us?*—sent me reeling. With him, life bloomed again: cinema trips, weekends in the Cotswolds, gallery visits. I felt alive.
Then Emily’s disapproval began. A call one Saturday morning:
“Mum, can you have Lily this weekend? We’re popping round.”
“Sorry, love, we’re away. Next time, give me notice—I’ll always have her.”
She scoffed, hung up. By Monday, Henry and I were back. I was glowing—even Lily noticed. Then Friday, another call:
“Friends invited us out. Can you take Lily?”
“We agreed on notice, Emily. I’ve got plans.”
“*More* gallivanting with Henry? Christ, he’s brainwashed you!”
“Emily, that’s enough—”
“You’ve forgotten Lily exists! You *said* you didn’t need romance!”
“I’ve changed. I’m *happy.* Can’t you understand?”
“And how’s Lily supposed to understand? You’re choosing some bloke over her?”
“*What?* I’m with her most days! Just apologise, and we’ll move on.”
“*Me* apologise? You’ve lost the plot. Lily’s not staying with you until you sort yourself out.” *Click.*
I crumpled. Shaking, sobbing—*how could she?* After a lifetime of sacrifice, I’m cast aside the moment I dare to live.
I pray she’ll cool off. Call. *Understand.* Because I can’t fathom life without them.
