My son raised her as his own… yet she didn’t even invite him to her wedding.
William married a woman with a past. Eleanor had been wed before and brought a daughter from her first marriage—Lillian. When my son introduced them to me, I regarded the girl with caution. But that wariness vanished the moment Lillian shyly pressed against me, murmuring a soft “hello.” Tiny hands, wide, trusting eyes—how could anyone resist?
Years passed. William raised Lillian as his own—without hesitation or distinction. He took her to school, checked her homework, played with dolls, built toy castles, and when she fell ill, he scarcely left her bedside. He was her whole world. And I, too, had my place in that world. I fetched her from school, watched over her when Eleanor and William wished for an evening alone. I gave gifts, called her my grandchild just as I did William’s other children, though by blood, she was no relation. But does love care for such things?
With Eleanor, our bond was civil—neither warm nor quarrelsome. I helped where I could: with money, advice, and care. The girl’s true father vanished after the divorce, sending only token child support. No concern, no presence—as if Lillian had been an accident he’d forgotten.
Then the girl grew up. So suddenly. It seemed only yesterday I braided her hair, and now—she was to be married. Yet neither William nor I received an invitation. Not to the ceremony, not to the feast, not even a simple “thank you.” Eleanor claimed it was a “family affair,” meant for an “intimate circle.” A circle that excluded the man who had been her father in every way but one: on paper.
And who, pray tell, attended in his place? The blood father. The one who had barely shown his face in all her childhood. The man who gave not a penny beyond court-mandated sums, who missed even her graduation. He was the “guest of honour.” And William? William stayed home. I watched him feign indifference, smile at Eleanor, and say it “didn’t matter.” But I—his mother—knew how his heart ached. Still, he never reproached them. Never demanded answers. He loved her in silence.
Then came the final blow.
I inherited a modest flat from a cousin—in a respectable part of town. I let it out to ease my pension. Then Eleanor called. Lillian and her husband needed a home—might I gift them the flat? Not rent, not lend—simply hand it over. As a mother would.
I could bear no more.
“And what of me, Eleanor? At the wedding, I was a stranger. Now, suddenly, I’m family?”
She faltered, muttering about misunderstandings, hurt feelings. Now, she said, was the chance to mend things.
But I refused. I would not evict good tenants, forfeit my income, or reward those who deemed me kin only when it suited them.
Some might call it petty. “Let it go,” they’d say. “She’s grown, she has her own life.” But life ought to have memory. And gratitude. A shred of it.
I am not angry. Only wounded. For my son, who gave his soul, his heart, his years to a girl who erased him from her most sacred day. For myself, who believed in a bond that never was. For the way she once called me “Grandmother,” then forgot the sound of my name.
Now I know the truth: we were never family. Not I, not William. Family is who stands in the wedding photos. The rest of us are merely… circumstance.
And though I bear no grudge… I’ll not open my heart again.
