**A Mother’s Diary**
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 married before, and she had a daughter from her first marriage—Emily. When my son first introduced them, I eyed the girl cautiously. But that skepticism vanished the moment Emily shyly pressed herself against me with a quiet, “Hello.” Tiny hands, big trusting eyes—how could anyone resist?
Years passed. William raised Emily as his own—no excuses, no distinctions. He took her to school, checked her homework, played dolls, built Lego sets, and when she fell ill, he stayed by her bedside. He was her world. And I was part of that world too. I picked her up from school, babysat when Eleanor and William wanted an evening alone. I gave her gifts, called her my grandchild just like William’s other children, though biologically, she was no relation. But does love care about such things?
My relationship with Eleanor was… civil. Not warm, but not strained. I helped however I could—financially, with advice, with care. Emily’s birth father vanished after the divorce, only sending token child support. No calls, no presence—as if she’d been an accident.
And then, the girl grew up. It happened so quietly. One day, I was braiding her hair; the next, she was getting married. Except neither I nor William was invited. Not to the ceremony, not to dinner, not even for a simple “thank you.” Eleanor said it was an “intimate family affair,” a “small gathering.” A gathering that excluded me and my son—the man who’d been her father in every way but on paper.
And who *was* there, you ask? The birth father. The man who’d seen Emily a handful of times in her childhood, who’d skipped her graduation, who’d never given a penny beyond court-ordered payments. He was the “honored guest.” And William? He stayed home. I watched him pretend it didn’t matter, smile at Eleanor, say, “No hard feelings.” But I’m his mother—I knew how much it hurt. Still, he never reproached them. He stayed silent. Because he loved her.
Then came the final straw.
I inherited a flat from my cousin. Modest, but in a decent part of town. I rented it out—a small supplement to my pension. Then Eleanor called. Emily and her husband were looking for a place—would I *give* them the flat? Not rent, not lend—*give*. Just like that. As a mother would to a daughter.
I snapped.
*”And what about me, Eleanor? Not family enough for the wedding, but suddenly family enough for a flat?”*
She faltered, muttered excuses—”things were hectic,” “everyone was upset.” Now, apparently, it was time for me to help.
But I won’t. I can’t. I refuse to evict good tenants, lose my income, and reward people who only claim me as family when it suits them.
Maybe it’s petty. Maybe some would say, “Let it go, she’s grown, she has her own life.” But life should have memory. And gratitude. At least a drop.
I’m not angry. Just hurt. For my son, who gave a decade of his heart to a girl who erased him from her most important day. For myself, for believing in something that never truly existed. For the way she once called me “Gran,” then forgot my name entirely.
Now I know the truth: we were never family to her. Not me, not William. Family is whoever’s on the wedding guest list. The rest of us? Just… circumstantial.
And you know what? I don’t hate her. But I won’t love her again, either.
