My name is Emily, and I carry a burden I’ve struggled with for years. Perhaps putting it into words will ease the weight.
My family was never a picture of harmony. We lived in Manchester, and from childhood, I witnessed resentment, gossip, drunkenness, and belittlement festering among the adults. My mother had a sister—Margaret. Her son, my cousin Oliver, married a woman whose loyalty was questionable, to put it mildly. Affairs were frequent, fights were explosive, and their divorce was short-lived—they kept circling back, addicted to the chaos. They had two children, but love never grew there. And Aunt Margaret? Her alcoholism was severe, her jobs never lasted. The family had long since given up on her.
Then, one day, Oliver’s wife fell seriously ill with kidney problems. Mum and I visited my grandmother—Violet Thompson—when she mentioned the woman’s condition. My mother reacted sharply: “She should’ve used her head, not whatever’s below her waist.” We would’ve shrugged it off, but Grandmother, ever blunt, repeated every word to the woman. And then—chaos.
A screeching row erupted, loud enough for the whole neighbourhood. Aunt Margaret, drunk as a skunk, flew at my mother, defending her daughter-in-law as if she were her own blood. We didn’t engage—just walked away. But the deepest cut came later. Grandmother took Margaret’s side. Calls stopped. Visits ended. To her, we no longer existed. While Mum tried to mend things, I refused. That day, I swore I’d have nothing more to do with them—none of the drinkers, none of those who could erase us so easily.
Eight years passed. Grandmother’s nearly eighty now. Recently, she rang Mum in tears, begging forgiveness. Mum, soft-hearted as ever, relented—she’s still her mother. But me? I can’t.
I have a daughter now—my sunshine, my joy. When Mum told Grandmother about her, her voice trembled. “Just a photo,” she pleaded. “I pray every night for one glimpse of my great-grandchild.” But I refused. Not out of spite—because the hurt still burns. Because I remember the betrayal, my mother’s tears, wondering what she’d done to deserve it. Because Grandmother taught me a brutal truth: family isn’t always love. Sometimes, it’s a choice. And she didn’t choose us.
Mum says, “Let it go, Emily—she’s old, tired. She just wants peace.” But something in me rebels. I don’t know if there’ll be another chance. Tomorrow might be too late.
Tell me… would you forgive?
