When I finally dared to have a life of my own, my daughter called me mad and forbade me from seeing my granddaughter.
All my life, I’d poured myself into my daughter—and later, my granddaughter. But it seems my family forgot I, too, had a right to happiness beyond just them. I’d married young, at twenty-one. My husband, James, was quiet, steady, a proper workaholic. One day, he was offered a two-week job hauling freight to another region—decent extra money, he said.
He never came back. To this day, I don’t know what happened on that trip. One time, I just got a call telling me James was gone. I was left alone with a two-year-old daughter, utterly lost. His parents had long passed, and mine lived in another city. I had no idea how to survive, let alone raise a child.
We were lucky, at least, to have James’ tiny flat after he died. Without that, I don’t know how we’d have managed. I was a teacher by training, so at first, I tried tutoring from home—but wrangling students with a toddler underfoot was near impossible.
I couldn’t take a proper job because of little Emily. What was I meant to do, leave a two-year-old alone all day? One visit, Mum saw my despair—and took Emily back with her. For nearly two years, my girl lived with her grandparents while I worked myself to the bone. School shifts, extra gigs, private lessons—no weekends, no breaks.
On Sundays, I’d visit Emily. Every goodbye shattered me. Then came the nursery wait—I dreaded having to stay home with sick days again, but luckily, Emily was tough as nails. Gradually, it was just the two of us. School, then uni.
I poured every penny into her—the best trainers, the nicest blouses. I juggled jobs, never just one, always two or three. But when Emily graduated and landed her own work, I finally exhaled. And then—bam—realised I was suddenly obsolete.
No more scrambling for extra shifts. My body was knackered, and my only company was the cat. Emily visited occasionally, but keeping her lonely mum entertained clearly wasn’t top of her list. I felt discarded. Then my granddaughter Lily arrived—and everything changed.
Months before the birth, I moved in with Emily and her husband, Steven. Shopping, cleaning, hospital bags—all me. Then, when Emily went back to work, Lily became my world. Not that I minded. For the first time in years, I felt needed.
This year, Lily started school. I’d fetch her, feed her, help with homework, take her to the park or clubs. And there, in the park, I met Peter. He was there with his granddaughter, too. We got talking. Peter, like me, had lost his wife young and now helped his daughter raise her little one.
When I first knew Peter, I expected nothing. Not once since James had I been on a date, let alone dinner. First, it was the baby, then work. And after Lily? I was just “Gran.” Did grans even *have* suitors? Turns out, they do. Peter reminded me I was still a woman.
That first message—him asking to meet, just us, no kids—sent me reeling. With him, a new life began. Cinema trips, theatre dates, festivals, exhibitions. I remembered what living felt like.
Then Emily decided she hated it. It all started with a Saturday morning call:
“Mum, we’re dropping Lily off for the weekend, yeah?”
“Sorry, love, I’m already booked. We’re out of town. Next time, give me a heads-up—I’ll gladly have her.”
Emily scoffed and hung up. Monday, Peter and I returned home, me buzzing, energised. Even Lily noticed my glow. Peace lasted till Friday—then another call:
“Friends invited us out. Can you take Lily?”
“We agreed—warn me first. I’ve got plans.”
“Oh, off gallivanting with *Peter* again, are you? He’s got you proper twisted!” she snapped.
“Emily, what’s got into you?” I tried to calm her.
“You’ve forgotten Lily exists! You always said you didn’t *need* happiness. What changed?”
“It did! I’m *alive* again. I just wish you’d understand—woman to woman.”
“And how’s Lily meant to understand? You’ve swapped her for some bloke?”
“Don’t be ridiculous! I’m still with her most days. Just—apologise, and we can forget this.”
“*Me* apologise? You’ve lost the plot. Lily’s not staying with you again. Sort yourself out—*then* we’ll talk.” Click.
I broke. Proper sobbing, chest-aching, can’t-breathe kind. After a lifetime of giving everything—just like that, I was cut off. For daring to be happy.
I hope Emily cools off. She’ll call. She’ll understand. Because I can’t imagine life without her—or Lily.
