My name is Emily, and I’ve carried this story with me for years, unable to let it go. Maybe putting it into words will help ease the weight.
My family was never a picture of harmony. We lived in Sheffield, and from childhood, I saw resentment, gossip, drinking, and humiliation woven into the fabric of our relationships. My mum has a sister, Margaret, whose son—my cousin, Simon—married a woman who, to put it kindly, wasn’t exactly faithful. Affairs were common, rows explosive, and their divorce short-lived because they kept falling back into each other’s arms like an addiction. They had two children, but love never grew there. As for Aunt Margaret, her struggle with alcohol was severe—she never held a job long, lost in endless binges until even the family stopped caring.
One day, Simon’s wife had serious kidney trouble. Mum and I went to visit my grandmother, Evelyn Carter, and she mentioned the illness. My mum scoffed, “Well, she should’ve used her head, not just her impulses.” We shrugged it off—until Gran, blunt as ever, repeated every word to the woman. Then all hell broke loose.
The row spilled into the street. Aunt Margaret, drunk off her feet, lunged at my mum, defending her daughter-in-law as if she were blood. We didn’t engage; we just walked away. But the deepest cut came later—Gran took their side. Calls stopped. Visits ended. We ceased to exist for her. While my mum tried to mend things, I couldn’t. In that moment, I swore I’d have nothing to do with that side of the family—not the drinkers, not the ones who could erase us so easily.
Eight years have passed. Gran is nearly eighty now. Recently, she rang my mum in tears, begging forgiveness. Mum, soft-hearted as ever, forgave her—she’s her mother, after all. But me? I can’t.
I have a little daughter now—my sunshine, my joy. Mum told Gran about her, and she pleaded, voice trembling, for just a photo. Said she prays every night for one glimpse of her great-grandchild. But I refused. Not out of spite, but because the hurt still lingers. Because I remember the betrayal, my mum’s tears, the way Gran showed me family isn’t always love—sometimes, it’s a choice. And she didn’t choose us.
I don’t know if I’m right. Mum says, “Don’t hold onto it, Emily—she’s old, tired, just wants to go in peace.” But my heart rebels. Maybe someday it’ll be too late. But I’m not ready.
Tell me… would you forgive?
