Her name was Eleanor, clutching at fragile threads of memory, but I couldn’t forgive the betrayal that had split us like an old, gnarled oak struck by lightning.
I’m called Amelia, and this is a story that has haunted me for years—perhaps if I spill it now, the weight might lift from my chest.
My family was never the picture of harmony. We lived in Cheltenham, where grudges hung in the air like smoke from a never-ending chimney. My mother had a sister, Margaret, whose son, my cousin Oliver, married a woman who—well, to put it kindly—wasn’t one for keeping vows. Cheating was her habit, fights their soundtrack, divorce papers filed and crumpled like beer cans in the recycling bin. Two children came, but love was scarce. And Aunt Margaret? A bottle was her best friend. Lost jobs, lost days—til even the family stopped pretending to care.
One winter, Oliver’s wife fell ill, kidneys failing. Mum and I visited Grandma—Violet Hughes—who mentioned it casually. Mum scoffed, “Some folks think with their hearts, others with—well, lower.” We shrugged, ready to forget it, but Grandma, blunt as ever, repeated every word to the sick woman. Then came the storm.
Drunk as a skunk, Margaret flew at Mum, fists and curses, defending her daughter-in-law like some saint. We walked away. But the wound came after—Grandma took their side. Calls stopped. Visits ended. We ceased to exist. And if Mum still tried to mend things, I refused. That’s when I decided: no part of me would belong to that poison or those who could erase us so easily.
Eight years passed. Grandma turned eighty. Last month, she rang Mum in tears, begging forgiveness. Mum, soft-hearted as ever, said yes—she’s her mother, after all. But me? I couldn’t.
Now I have a little girl—my sunshine, my joy. Mum told Grandma about her, and suddenly, trembling prayers spilled through the phone: just a photo, just one glimpse of her great-granddaughter before she’s gone. But I said no. Not out of spite.
Because even now, the hurt sits heavy. Because I remember Mum crying, wondering what she’d done to deserve such silence. Because Grandma taught me then that blood isn’t love—it’s a choice. And she didn’t choose us.
I don’t know if I’m right. Mum says, “Let it go, love—she’s old, she’s tired, she wants peace.” But something in me rebels. There may be no second chance. Tomorrow might be too late.
And yet—I’m not ready.
Tell me… would you forgive?
