I wasn’t invited to the wedding because I was considered an outsider, but when it came to my flat, I suddenly became “family.”
My son got married nearly a decade ago. His chosen one, Emily, had been married before and brought a daughter from her first marriage into our family. I embraced both her and the child as my own, opening my heart to them with no distinctions. Over the years, I tried my best to support the young couple: sometimes financially, sometimes by babysitting the children to give them a break from their endless responsibilities. Although things between my daughter-in-law and me were always tense—we never had open arguments—a cold wall remained between us that I could never break down.
Emily’s first husband dutifully paid child support but wanted nothing to do with his daughter—he’d just erased her from his life as if she were an unwanted page. Last year, my granddaughter, whom I considered my own flesh and blood, got married. That’s when it all started. My son and I weren’t invited to the wedding. Why? The ceremony was only for “family members,” and apparently, we weren’t part of that circle. My son, who raised that girl for nearly ten years, poured his soul into her, and became a father to her, was suddenly deemed unnecessary. Yet, her biological father, who hadn’t thought of her for years except to send money, was proudly present among the guests, as if he had any right to be there.
This news struck me like lightning. I loved that girl, celebrated her achievements, helped whenever I could, and in return, I got nothing but indifferent eyes and a closed door. I considered her my granddaughter, and she wrote me off without so much as a backward glance. My son stayed silent, though I could see the pain eating him up inside—he swallowed that hurt, buried it deep, but it never disappeared. I felt doubly pained, for both myself and him, for the injustice that crushed us both.
A year ago, I inherited a small one-bedroom flat in a town near Oxford. I decided to rent it out to add some extra money to my modest pension—it’s tough living on it alone, and a little extra cash always helps. Suddenly, the phone rang. It was Emily, her voice soft, almost tender—unrecognizable. She said that her daughter, my “granddaughter,” was expecting a child, and the young couple had nowhere to live. She asked me to offer them my flat so they could settle there. I was stunned. At the wedding, we were outsiders, unnecessary, but now that housing was an issue, I’d become a “close relative”?
Her words hung in the air like a bitter reproach. I haven’t given an answer yet, but everything inside me screams: “No!” Maybe I’m clinging to the past, holding onto this resentment like an anchor, but I can’t forgive such betrayal. My heart aches with memories—how I rejoiced at her first steps, how I bought her gifts, how I considered her a part of my soul. And now, she and her mother look at me as a resource to be used and discarded when no longer needed.
I don’t understand how my son, my Alex, puts up with this humiliation. How can he live with a woman who doesn’t appreciate his effort, his sacrifices, or his mother? He remains silent, avoiding my gaze, and I see him slowly fading away in this marriage. I stand at a crossroads: to concede and swallow the hurt again or finally say “enough” and protect at least a shred of my dignity. The flat isn’t just four walls; it’s my anchor, my little haven in old age. Hand it over to those who wrote me off when I wasn’t needed? No, it’s beyond my capacity.
I’m still torn. Part of me wants to be kind, generous, as a mother and grandmother should be. But another part, weary of the pain and deceit, whispers: “You owe them nothing.” And this internal conflict haunts me day and night, leaving only the shadow of the woman who once believed in the strength of family.
