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 daughter from her first marriage—Emily. When my son first brought them to meet me, I eyed the girl warily. But that hesitation vanished the moment Emily hugged me with a shy little “hello.” Tiny hands, big trusting eyes—how could anyone resist?
Years passed. William raised Emily as his own—no questions, no distinctions. He took her to school, helped with homework, played with dolls, built toy sets with her, and when she fell ill, he stayed by her bedside. He was her entire world. And I was part of that world too. I picked her up from school, watched her when Eleanor and Will wanted an evening alone. I gave her gifts, called her my granddaughter just like William’s other children, even though, biologically, she wasn’t mine. But does that matter when it comes to love?
My relationship with Eleanor was civil—not particularly warm, but no conflict either. I helped where I could, with money, advice, or just looking after things. The girl’s real father vanished after the divorce, only sending the occasional token payment. No care, no involvement—as if Emily had just happened to him by accident.
Then, before I knew it, she was grown. It felt like just yesterday I was braiding her hair, and now suddenly—she was getting married. Except neither I nor William were invited. No ceremony, no reception, not even a simple “thank you.” Eleanor said it was a “family celebration,” that they were keeping it “small and intimate.” Intimate enough to exclude me and my son—the man who had been her father in every way but one: on paper.
And who do you think *was* there? Her biological father. The man who’d seen her maybe twice in her childhood. The one who never gave a penny beyond court-ordered payments, who hadn’t even shown up to her graduation. He was the “guest of honour.” And William? He stayed home. I watched him pretend it didn’t matter, smiling at Eleanor, saying, “It’s fine.” But I’m his mother. I knew how much it hurt him. And still, he didn’t lash out, didn’t demand an explanation. He stayed silent. Because he loved her.
Then came the final straw.
I inherited a flat from my cousin—modest but in a good part of town. I rented it out to supplement my pension. Then Eleanor called: Emily and her husband were looking for a place—maybe I could *give* them the flat? Not rent it, not lend it—just hand it over. Like a mother would for a daughter.
I couldn’t hold back:
“And what about me, Eleanor? I wasn’t family enough for the wedding, but now I’m suddenly close enough to just *give* you a flat?”
She stammered, mumbled something about it being a misunderstanding, that everyone got upset. But now, apparently, here was a chance to help.
I won’t. I can’t. I refuse to kick out good tenants, lose my income, and give a gift to someone who only remembers I’m family when it’s convenient.
Maybe it’s petty. Maybe some would say, “Let it go, she’s grown, she has her own life.” But life should have some memory. Some gratitude. Just a little.
I’m not angry. I’m hurt. For my son, who gave his heart, his soul, years of his life to a girl who erased him from her most important day. For myself, because I believed in something that wasn’t real. Because she once called me “Grandma,” and now I doubt she even remembers my name.
Now I know the truth: we were never family to her. Not me, not Will. Family is who gets a wedding invitation. The rest? Just people you use when you need them.
And you know what? I don’t hate her. But I won’t offer my love again.
