Our granddaughter is ashamed of us… after we gave her everything.
When I think back to how it all started, my heart still aches. Alex and I became grandparents far too soon. Our daughter, Emily, was barely sixteen when she had little Amelia. Back then, in our village near York, the gossip about the “Hollingsworth disgrace” was all anyone could talk about. Who’d have thought it? A respectable family like ours—steady jobs, a comfortable home, good standing in the community. I was head accountant at a local farm firm, Alex drove lorries across the country. We had enough to give Emily every advantage—piano lessons, private tutors, holidays by the seaside. Too bad we spoiled her with daydreams instead of life lessons.
Our Emily was brilliant as a child. Spelling bees, ballet recitals, top marks in everything. Then, suddenly, she slipped through our fingers—sullen, secretive, snapping at every question. And then… one day, everything changed. Fifteen years old with a belly round as a kettle drum. At first, we thought it was a joke. Then the ambulance, the hospital, and nearly a heart attack for me.
Alex wanted to throttle the lad responsible, but when he did show up, he was three sheets to the wind and couldn’t even recall our daughter’s name. He saw Amelia once—just long enough to disappear forever. That’s when we knew: we weren’t grandparents anymore. We were parents all over again.
Emily wanted a clean slate. She moved to York, finished school, married some bloke, and for the last twenty years, she’s lived like none of it ever happened. No children of her own. Never wanted Amelia back. “He won’t accept her—she’s not his,” she said. And that was that. So, Alex and I raised our granddaughter on worn-out knees and borrowed time.
By the time Amelia turned six, we realised the village wasn’t enough for her future. We sold the cottage, scraped together enough for a modest flat on the outskirts of Leeds, took whatever jobs we could just to keep our pensions growing. Weekends were still for the village, but weekdays—those were all for her.
Tutors, dance classes, school trips—we pinched every penny. I wore the same coat three winters straight; Alex glued the soles back on his boots. But Amelia had everything—new mobiles, laptops, even holidays abroad. When she got into university, we sold a bit of land to pay for her internship in Beijing. Then London. Then a swanky job in the capital.
We were proud. We told ourselves it was all worth it. Everything for her.
Then it started.
First, the calls grew fewer. Then her replies—short, clipped. Then silence. If we happened to bump into her in town, she’d look away. Once, at a bus stop, we spotted her. We rushed over, all smiles. She froze, then:
“Sorry, you must have me confused.”
I broke down right there. Later, she came round and said:
“Granny, don’t take it personal, yeah? It’s just—you’re… well, ordinary. My friends—they’re different. They wouldn’t get it. What am I supposed to say? That you grew turnips? That Grandpa’s back’s ruined from hauling freight? It’s embarrassing.”
Embarrassed. Of *us*.
That night, Alex chain-smoked at the kitchen table while I wept. Not just from hurt—from betrayal. We weren’t strangers. We’d raised her from a babe. Stayed up nights when she was feverish. Skimped and saved so she’d never want for anything.
Then came the fiancé. She introduced us exactly once—when she needed our signatures for her mortgage paperwork. Before? Nothing. After? Not a word of thanks. The wedding was at some posh restaurant. We weren’t invited. “Just close friends,” she said. We scrolled through the photos online—her radiant, laughing, surrounded by people we didn’t know.
Recently, I finally told her how it felt. She just smirked:
“Gran, you’re the past. I’ve moved on.”
Alex, though—he said it best:
“Let her go. We did our part. Let her fly. But she’d better hope her wings never ice over. Because when frost bites, it’s family who digs you out.”
Now it’s just us. Two old ducks from the sticks. But our hearts? Still full of love for her, no matter what. And as long as we’re here, she’s not alone—even if she acts like we don’t exist.
Still, sometimes, when I say my prayers at night, I whisper one thing: may she never have to search for the ones she pushed away… only to find they’re gone.