**Diary Entry – 19th April, 2024**
I was only fifteen when Mum announced she was remarrying. Without a second thought, she sent me—her only daughter—to live with Nan in her tiny flat in Manchester. I was in the way of her “fresh start.” No letters, no calls, not a penny in support. She had it all—a new husband, a new family—while I had Nan’s worn-out two-bed and her pension, barely enough to scrape by. But Nan loved me fiercely, despite our modest life. She never saw me as someone else’s child. She shared everything with me: warmth, laughter, even her sorrow. I grew up under her care, charmed by every hug, every handkerchief that dried my tears.
When Nan passed, I was in my second year at uni. The funeral, the shock, the emptiness. The one comfort? Her flat was now mine. Left to me not out of obligation but love. I was her only family, the rightful owner of the place where I first knew what it meant to be cherished.
Years slipped by. I’d nearly forgotten about Mum—buried her like a bad memory. Then, a knock at the door. There she stood. No “hello,” no “how are you?” Just demands.
“Mum and your stepdad are cramped in our two-bed. Yours is a three-bed. Swap with us. You owe me that much—I’m your mother!”
I stared at her, my chest burning.
“You didn’t want me then,” I said. “Why should I owe you anything now?”
“Because I’m your mother!” she shrieked. “How can you be so ungrateful?”
I shut the door. Thought that was the end of it. I was wrong.
Seven more years passed. I was married, raising my son, David. My husband and I worked hard—mortgage payments, weekend DIY, stolen moments of joy between the chaos. Then another knock.
I opened it, and there she was again. Older, weary. Still no greeting—just a plea:
“Let me stay. Just for a while.”
David peered down the hall. “Mum, who’s that?”
“Your grandmother,” she blurted out before I could speak.
“Mum, is she really?” he asked, wary.
I sighed. “Go to your room, love. I’ll explain later.”
Alone, I learned her new husband had swindled her—convinced her to sell her flat for a “bigger place,” then vanished with the money. Now she had nothing. So she came to me—the daughter she’d tossed aside without a backwards glance.
“You won’t leave me homeless. You’re my daughter! I raised you!”
“You?” A bitter laugh caught in my throat. “Nan raised me. You chose a man over me. And now you want my home?”
She stayed two nights. I fed her, lived through her sharp remarks. Then I rang her cousin in Cornwall—they needed kitchen help at a seaside B&B. Auntie agreed to take her in. Mum left, but not quietly. She screeched in the stairwell like I’d betrayed her:
“You’re a terrible daughter! You’ll regret this!”
I stood in the doorway, silent. No more shouting. I’d forgiven her long ago. But letting her back in? That was different.
How dare she? How could she walk back in after all this time and demand love as if none of it happened—as if pain could be wiped away like dust on a shelf? But I’m not that girl anymore.
I’m a mother now. I know the weight of real care. And I won’t let my son feel what I felt. So no—I’m not a bad daughter. I just refuse to be her life raft. Let her swim on her own.
Some wounds don’t heal. Some debts don’t need paying. And sometimes “family” is just a word. —— **L.B.**
