My name is Emily, and I’ve carried this story with me for years, unable to let it go. Maybe putting it into words will ease the weight.
My family was never the picture of harmony. We lived in Manchester, and from childhood, I witnessed the trails of resentment, gossip, alcoholism, and humiliation between the adults. My mum has a sister—Patricia. Her son, my cousin James, married a woman whose loyalty was questionable, to put it mildly. Affairs were frequent, arguments explosive, and their divorce short-lived because they kept reconciling, as if addicted to the chaos. They had two children, but love never grew there. As for Aunt Patricia, her severe alcoholism made it impossible to hold a job. Endless binges, dismissals—the whole family had long given up on her.
One day, James’s wife developed serious kidney problems. Mum and I visited Grandma—Margaret—who mentioned the illness. My mum snapped, “Well, she should’ve used her head instead of thinking with her heart—or lower.” We shrugged it off, but Grandma, blunt as ever, relayed those exact words to the woman. And then all hell broke loose.
The row echoed down the street. Aunt Patricia, drunk out of her mind, lunged at my mum, defending her daughter-in-law as if she were her own flesh and blood. We walked away, refusing to engage. But the real wound came later—Grandma took their side. She stopped calling, stopped inviting us over. It was as if we no longer existed. While my mum made feeble attempts to mend things, I couldn’t. In that moment, I decided: I wanted nothing to do with that toxic family or anyone who could erase us so easily.
Eight years passed. Grandma is nearly eighty now. Recently, she called my mum in tears, begging for forgiveness. Mum, soft-hearted as ever, obliged—she’s still her mother, after all. But me? I can’t.
Now I have a little daughter of my own—my sunshine, my joy. Mum told Grandma about her, and with a trembling voice, she pleaded for just a photo. She said she dreams of meeting her great-granddaughter, that she prays every night for a chance to see her, even once. But I refused. Firmly.
Not out of spite. Because the hurt still lingers. Because I remember the betrayal, the nights my mum cried, wondering what she’d done to deserve such cruelty. Because Grandma taught me then that family isn’t always about love—sometimes it’s a choice. And she didn’t choose us.
I don’t know if I’m right. Mum says, “Don’t hold onto anger, Emily. She’s old, tired—she just wants peace.” But something in me resists. Maybe tomorrow will be too late, but I’m not ready.
Tell me… would you forgive?
*Sometimes the deepest wounds aren’t from strangers, but from those who should have loved us best.*
