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 had a young daughter from her first marriage—Lucy. When my son introduced them, I eyed the girl with suspicion. But that look vanished the moment Lucy shyly pressed against me with a quiet “hello.” Tiny hands, wide eyes, so trusting—how could anyone resist?
Years passed. William raised Lucy as his own—no excuses, no divisions. He took her to school, checked her homework, played with dolls, built toy castles, and when she fell ill, he never left her bedside. He was her whole world. 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 presents, called her my grandchild just like William’s other children, though biologically, she was no relation. But does love care for blood?
Eleanor and I had a civil relationship. No deep warmth, but no quarrels either. I helped where I could—money, advice, care. Lucy’s birth father vanished after the divorce, sending only the occasional token payment. No love, no presence—as if Lucy had been an accident.
And then, the girl grew up. So quietly. One moment, I was braiding her hair, the next—she was getting married. Except neither I nor William were invited. No ceremony, no dinner, not even a simple “thank you.” Eleanor claimed it was a “family affair,” a “small gathering.” Small enough to exclude the man who’d been Lucy’s father in every way but name for over a decade.
And who do you suppose attended? The birth father. The man who’d shown up a handful of times in Lucy’s childhood. The one who’d never given a penny beyond court-ordered support, who hadn’t even come to her graduation. He was the “guest of honor.” And William? William stayed home. I watched him pretend it didn’t matter, smile at Eleanor, and say, “It’s fine.” But I—his mother—knew how his heart ached. 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 London. I rented it out—a little extra for my pension. Then Eleanor called. Lucy and her husband needed a place to live. Could I just… give them the flat? Not rent, not lend—give. Like a mother to a daughter.
I snapped.
“And what about me, Eleanor? Not family enough for the wedding, but suddenly kin when a flat’s involved?”
She stumbled, mumbled excuses—too much going on, feelings were hurt. Now, she said, was the chance to help.
But I won’t. I can’t. I refuse to evict good tenants, lose my income, and reward those who only claim me as family when it suits them.
Yes, perhaps it’s petty. Maybe someone would say, “Let it go, she’s grown, she has her own life.” But life should have memory. And gratitude. Even a drop.
I’m not angry. I’m hurt. For my son, who gave his soul, his heart, years of his life to a girl who erased him from her most important day. For myself, for believing in something that never existed. For all the times she called me “Gran” in our home—then forgot my name.
Now I know the truth: we were never family to her. Not William, not me. Family is who gets the wedding invite. The rest? Just circumstances.
And you know… I don’t hold a grudge. But I won’t give myself away again.
