My son raised her as his own… and she didn’t even invite him to her wedding.
William married a woman with a past. Emily had been divorced, and she had a little girl from her first marriage—Sophie. When my son first introduced them, I eyed the girl warily. But that look vanished the second Sophie hugged me shyly and whispered, *hello*. Tiny hands, big eyes, so trusting—how could anyone resist?
Years passed. William raised Sophie as his own—no excuses, no distinctions. He took her to school, helped with homework, played dolls, built Lego sets, and when she fell ill, he stayed by her bedside. He was her whole world. And I was part of that world, too. I picked her up from school, babysat when Emily and Will wanted an evening alone. I gave her gifts, called her my grandchild just like William’s other kids, even though biologically, Sophie was no relation to me. But does that even matter when it comes to love?
Emily and I got along fine. Not especially close, but no arguments either. I helped where I could—with money, advice, little acts of care. Sophie’s biological dad vanished after the divorce, only sending the odd token child support. No visits, no interest—as if Sophie had just happened to him by accident.
Then the little girl grew up. So fast. One minute I was braiding her hair, the next—she’s getting married. Except neither William nor I were invited. Not to the ceremony, not to the reception, not even for a simple *thank you*. Emily said it was *just family* and *keeping it small*. Small, as in no space for me or my son—the man who’d been her father in every way but one, the one written on paper.
And guess who *was* there? Her biological dad. The one who’d shown up maybe twice in her entire childhood. The man who never gave a penny beyond the bare minimum, who couldn’t even be bothered to come to her graduation. He got a front-row seat. And William? He sat at home. I watched him pretend it didn’t matter, smile at Emily and say *no hard feelings*. But I’m his mother—I knew how much it hurt. And still, he never blamed them, never demanded answers. He stayed quiet. Because he loved her.
Then came the last straw.
I inherited a flat from my cousin. Small, but in a nice part of town. Rented it out to supplement my pension. Then Emily called. Sophie and her husband were looking for a place—maybe I’d *give* them the flat? Not rent, not lend—just hand it over. Like a mother would for her own child.
I couldn’t take it.
*What about me, Em? Not family enough for the wedding, but suddenly family when you want something?*
She stumbled through excuses—*things were hectic, people got upset*. Now, apparently, it was my turn to step up.
But I won’t. I don’t want to. I won’t kick out good tenants, lose my income, and reward someone who only remembers I exist when it’s convenient.
Maybe it’s petty. Maybe someone would say *let it go, she’s grown, she’s got her own life*. But life should have *memory*. And gratitude. Even just a drop.
I’m not angry. Just hurt. For my son, who gave his heart and years to a girl who erased him from her big day. For myself—believing in something that wasn’t real. For the way she called me *Nan* in our home, then forgot my name entirely.
Now I know—we were never family to her. Not me, not Will. Family’s the name on the wedding invite. The rest of us? Just… circumstantial.
And you know… I don’t hold a grudge. But I won’t give myself away again.
