**Diary Entry**
My name is Eleanor, and there’s a burden I’ve carried for years. Perhaps writing it down will ease the weight.
My family was never the picture of harmony. We lived in Manchester, and from childhood, I witnessed resentment, gossip, alcoholism, and humiliation woven between the adults. My mother has a sister—Margaret. Her son, my cousin Oliver, married a woman whose loyalty was… questionable, to put it mildly. Affairs were frequent, fights explosive, divorces short-lived because they always crawled back to each other, as if addicted. They had two children, yet love never grew there. And Aunt Margaret? A severe drinker, unable to hold a job. Endless binges, dismissals—our relatives had long since given up on her.
Once, Oliver’s wife developed serious kidney problems. We visited my grandmother—Violet Margaret—and she told us about the illness. My mother snapped, “Well, perhaps she should think with her head, not her urges.” We shrugged it off, but Gran, never one to mince words, repeated it verbatim to Oliver’s wife. And then—chaos.
A shouting match erupted down the street. Aunt Margaret, blind drunk, lashed out at my mother, defending her daughter-in-law as fiercely as if she were her own child. We walked away rather than engage. But the deepest cut came later: Gran took their side. She stopped calling us, stopped inviting us over. To her, we simply ceased to exist. While my mother tried to mend things, I refused. That day, I decided—I wanted nothing to do with that drunken mess of a family, or with anyone who could erase us so easily.
Eight years have passed. Gran turns eighty soon. Recently, she phoned my mother in tears, begging forgiveness. Mum, soft-hearted as ever, relented—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 Gran about her, and with a trembling voice, she pleaded for just a photo. Said she dreams of meeting her great-granddaughter, that she prays every night for even a glimpse of her. But I refused. Firmly.
Not out of spite. Because the hurt still lingers. Because I remember how we were betrayed, how my mother cried, wondering what she’d done to deserve such cruelty. Because Gran taught 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 a grudge, Ellie—she’s old, weary, just wants to go in peace.” But my heart rebels. Maybe tomorrow will be too late, but I’m not ready.
Tell me… would you forgive?
