William married a woman with a past. Nadine had been married before and had a daughter from her first marriage—Molly. When my son introduced them, I eyed the girl with suspicion, but that look vanished the second Molly hugged me with a shy “hello.” Tiny hands, huge eyes, such trust—how could anyone resist?
Years passed. William raised Molly as his own—no excuses, no divisions. He took her to school, checked her homework, played with dolls, built Lego sets, and when she fell ill, he stayed by her bedside. He was her entire world. I was part of that world too—picking her up from school, babysitting so Nadine and William could have evenings alone, giving gifts, treating her like my own grandchild, even though, biologically, she wasn’t. But does biology matter when it comes to love?
Nadine and I got on well enough—no deep bond, but no battles either. I helped where I could: money, advice, babysitting. Molly’s birth father vanished after the divorce, only sending token child support. No care, no involvement—as if Molly had just happened to him.
Then, suddenly, the little girl grew up. One minute I was braiding her hair, the next she was getting married. Except neither William nor I were invited. Not to the ceremony, not to the reception, not even for a casual “thank you.” Nadine said it was a “small, family affair.” Small, indeed—small enough to exclude the man who’d been a father to Molly in every way but one: on paper.
And who *was* there? The birth father. The one who’d shown up maybe twice in her childhood, who’d never paid a penny more than required, who skipped her graduation. Yet there he was—guest of honour. And William? He stayed home, pretending it didn’t matter, smiling at Nadine, saying, “No harm done.” But I’m his mother. I knew how much it hurt. He never accused them, never demanded an explanation. Because he loved her.
Then came the final straw.
I inherited a flat from my cousin—modest but in a nice part of town. I rented it out to supplement my pension. Then Nadine called. Molly and her husband were looking for a place—would I *give* them the flat? Not rent, not lend—just hand it over. Like a mother would for a daughter.
I snapped.
“So tell me, Nadine—when your daughter got married, I wasn’t family. But now I’m suddenly dear enough for a free flat?”
She stumbled over excuses—”it wasn’t personal,” “people were upset,” and now, here was a chance to “make things right.”
But I won’t. I can’t. 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 will say, “Let it go, she’s grown, she’s got her own life.” But life should have memory. Gratitude. Even a shred.
I’m not angry. I’m hurt. For my son, who gave his heart, his time, his love to a girl who erased him from her big day. For myself, for believing in a bond that wasn’t real. For the way she called me “Gran” in our home, then forgot my name when it suited her.
Now I know: we were never family. Not William, not me. Family is whoever gets a wedding invite. The rest of us? We’re just circumstantial.
And you know what? I don’t hate them. But I won’t offer my heart again, either.
