I wasn’t invited to the wedding because I was considered an “outsider,” yet when my flat was in question, I suddenly became “family.”
My son got married nearly ten years ago. His chosen partner, Sarah, had been married before and brought with her a daughter from that first marriage. I welcomed her and the little girl as my own, opening my heart without making distinctions. Over the years, I supported the young family whenever I could: helping with finances or babysitting so they could take a breather from their endless responsibilities. Despite this, the relationship with my daughter-in-law was always strained—no outright fights, but a cold barrier hung between us that I never managed to break through.
Sarah’s first husband consistently paid child support but had no interest in seeing his daughter, merely erasing her from his life completely. Last year, my granddaughter, whom I’d considered as my own flesh and blood, got married. That’s when everything shifted. Neither my son nor I were invited to the wedding. Why? Because it was a “family-only” event, and apparently, we weren’t included in that inner circle. My son, who had helped raise this girl for nearly a decade, was considered superfluous. Astonishingly, her biological father, who had ignored her except to send money, was there among the guests as though he had earned that right.
The news struck me like a bolt of lightning. I loved this girl, celebrated her achievements, helped her however I could, yet all I received in return was an indifferent glance and a closed door. I saw her as my granddaughter, but she erased me from her life without a second thought. My son said nothing, though I could see how the pain gnawed at him inside—he swallowed the hurt, burying it deep, but it hadn’t gone away. It was doubly painful for me—for him and for myself, for the unjust way we were both sidelined.
A year ago, I inherited a small one-bedroom flat in our town near Norwich. I decided to rent it out to supplement my modest pension—living on just that was hard, and every little bit helps. Then came a phone call. Sarah was on the line, her voice gentle, almost sweet—unrecognizable. She said that her daughter, my “granddaughter,” was expecting a child and they had nowhere to live. She asked if I could free up the flat and let them settle there. I was stunned. We were outsiders at the wedding, unnecessary, but now when housing was at stake, I suddenly became a “close relative”?
Her words hung in the air like a bitter reprimand. I hadn’t responded yet, but inside everything screamed “No!” Perhaps I’m holding onto the past, clinging to this resentment like an anchor, but I cannot forgive such betrayal. My heart aches with the memories—watching her take her first steps, buying her gifts, thinking of her as part of my soul. Now, she and her mother see me as a resource to use and toss away when no longer needed.
I can’t understand how my son, my Alex, endures this humiliation. How does he live with a woman who doesn’t appreciate his effort, his sacrifices, or his mother? He remains silent, averting his eyes, and I see him slowly fading in this marriage. I’m left with a choice: to give in and swallow my pride once more, or to finally say “enough,” to protect at least a shred of my dignity. The flat is more than just walls; it’s my support, my little sanctuary in old age. To give it to those who erased me from their lives when they didn’t need me? No, that’s beyond my strength.
I’m still torn. Part of me wants to be kind, generous, as befits a mother and grandmother. But another part, tired of the pain and deceit, whispers, “You owe them nothing.” This internal conflict torments me day and night, leaving just a shadow of the woman who once believed in the power of family.
