My family and I live in different towns across England. It’s been over twenty years since we last saw one another. Both my parents are artists who sing in a choir, forever on the road. When I turned five, I went to live with my grandmother. She wanted a simpler life with a child, so she moved near her own relatives.
Back then, Mum and Dad would visit us two, sometimes three times a year. But after a while, their visits grew fewer and further between, until, eventually, I just stopped thinking about them altogether. We lost touch completely. When I was a dental student, I got married in my third year.
Now, my wife and I run our own dental practice, and were doing rather well. About a year ago, my parents resurfaced. They started ringing the clinic, not even having my personal number. Our chats consisted mostly of them bemoaning their lives.
Id listen to their grievances, but reminded them that theyd chosen their path when they left me to be brought up by my grandmother. Occasionally, my parents sent my grandmother a few quid, but most of the time, she and I lived off her pension. She told me this often, and I understood; we had to scrimp and save for everything.
I did well in school. To afford food and clothes, I worked nights as an assistant at the hospital. These days, I have my own life, and my parents have theirs, so I let us each walk our own path.
When my parents realised I wasnt going to help them out, they threatened to take me to court for financial support. That final jab pushed me away for good. If I used to doubt my decision or considered helping them out, I certainly dont now. Id rather not know them. I sometimes ask myself if Im justified in feeling this way, or if I ought to help my parents after all.
After everything, what I’ve truly learned is that family isn’t always about blood; sometimes, those who raise you and stand by you are the ones who deserve your loyalty.
