My name is Emily, and there’s a story I’ve carried with me for years, one I still struggle with. Maybe putting it into words will ease the weight.
My family was never the picture of harmony. We lived in Manchester, and from a young age, I saw the bitterness, the gossip, the drinking, the humiliations that lingered between the adults. My mum has a sister—Margaret. Her son, my cousin Simon, married a woman who wasn’t exactly faithful, to put it mildly. Affairs were constant, rows were loud, and their divorce never lasted because they’d always crawl back to each other, like an addiction. They had two kids, but love never grew there. And Aunt Margaret—she battled the bottle hard, never holding down a job. Benders, sackings—the whole family had given up on her.
Once, Simon’s wife had serious kidney trouble. Mum and I went to visit Gran—Dorothy Wilson. She told us about the woman’s illness, and Mum snapped, “Well, she should’ve used her head, not just what’s below the waist.” We both shrugged it off—ought to’ve been the end of it. But Gran, blunt as ever, repeated every word to her. And then all hell broke loose.
The row could’ve been heard down the whole street. Aunt Margaret, blind drunk, went for Mum, defending her daughter-in-law like she was blood. We just walked away—no point engaging. But the real pain came later. Gran took Margaret’s side. Stopped calling, stopped inviting us over. Like we didn’t exist anymore. Mum tried to keep in touch, but I couldn’t. That day, I decided: I wanted nothing to do with that drunk lot, nor anyone who could cut us out so easily.
Eight years passed. Gran’s nearly eighty now. Recently, she rang Mum in tears, begging forgiveness. Mum, soft-hearted as ever, forgave her—she’s still her mother. But me? I can’t.
I’ve got a little girl now—my joy, my sunshine. Mum told Gran about her, and Gran, voice shaking, begged just for a photo. Said she prays every night for a chance to see her great-granddaughter, even if only for a second. I said no. Absolutely not.
Not out of spite. But because the hurt’s still there. Because I still remember the betrayal, how Mum cried, wondering what she’d done to deserve it. Because Gran showed me then that family isn’t always 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 it, Emily—she’s old, tired, just wants to go in peace.” But everything in me resists. Maybe tomorrow will be too late, but I’m not ready.
Tell me… would you forgive?
