She’s been on edge for a month now. Hurt, furious, and utterly alone. She withdrew into herself after her lover walked out, even though she truly believed this time would be different—that this was real happiness.
I’m 26, and her name is Lorraine. She’s 44. Biologically, we share blood. In reality, we’re strangers. She married my father at nineteen, and a year later, I arrived—an unwanted child, as she so often reminded me. They divorced soon after I was born, and from then on, she never missed a chance to call him a “good-for-nothing failure.”
The irony? That “failure” has been happily married to his second wife for over two decades. He owns a thriving business, a spacious country house just outside London, two flats, and even a cottage in the Lake District. He’s the one who gifted us our home when my husband and I got married—the very place we live now.
I was raised by my grandmother, my father’s mother. Later, Dad took me into his new family, and I never once felt out of place. My stepmother is wonderful—she became the mother I never had. Lorraine? I’ve called her by her first name since I was little. And for good reason.
I was nine when she took me to Brighton for what she called a “proper mother-daughter holiday.” I made the mistake of asking, “Mum, can we go to the beach?” The entire hotel probably heard her shriek:
“Don’t *ever* call me Mum! It makes me sound ancient! It’s Lorraine, got it?”
I got it. And from that day on, I never went anywhere with her again. Her world revolved around men, spas, and parties—not me. I stayed with Grandmum, then with Dad and his new family. And I couldn’t be more grateful.
Over the years, Lorraine cycled through five husbands. In between? Countless flings, wild nights, fake smiles, and layers of mascara. She worked at an upscale salon in Chelsea, injecting anything she could—Botox, fillers, threads, lips—until her face lost all expression. Yet she still insisted, “I’m young! I’ve still got it!”
Her latest “prince” was two years younger than me—a lanky bartender named Billy, all tattoos and cheap cologne.
“Darling, meet Billy,” she gushed, beaming like a schoolgirl at prom. “We’re getting married. It’s serious.”
I froze. Then quietly said, “Lorraine… I’m pregnant. You’re going to be a grandmother.”
Billy fumbled with champagne, shouting, “Cheers!” while Lorraine turned grey. Without a word, she grabbed her bag, slammed the door, and vanished.
A week later, she reappeared—red-eyed, face twisted in rage.
“It’s your fault! He left because of you! You ruined everything with your *grandmother* nonsense! I refuse to get old! I’m only thirty-seven! I still have a life, and you’re dragging me into the grave with your baby!”
I couldn’t believe my ears. The woman who gave birth to me called my pregnancy a *betrayal*. Then came the final blow—words that scorched away whatever was left between us:
“I never had a daughter. And I won’t have grandchildren or great-grandchildren. Forget I exist.”
And with that, she left.
We drove to our real family—my grandparents. They held us tight, crying with joy, already planning baby names, pram walks, and knitting tiny booties. *They* are my roots, my haven, my home.
As for Lorraine? Let her chase eternal youth. But one day, she’ll wake up to silence—an empty flat, a face that’s no longer hers, staring into a mirror that shows nothing at all. Maybe then she’ll realise what she truly lost.
