**Diary Entry**
I am horrified by how they treat Grandma, and I no longer want any part of this family.
My heart clenched in pain and disgust when I saw how my fiancé’s family treated his grandmother. To me, respecting elders isn’t an empty phrase—it’s the foundation I was raised on. But what I witnessed in their house in Manchester shattered my opinion of them. The image still haunts me like a nightmare I can’t shake. Now I’m certain—this family is not where I belong.
In my own family, for as long as I can remember, grandparents were cherished and cared for. No one ever raised their voice or spoke to them harshly. We helped them, listened to their stories, valued their wisdom. Yes, elderly people can sometimes act childishly, but is that an excuse for shouting or humiliation? They’ve lived through hardships, and they deserve warmth and respect. I adored spending time with my grandparents, soaking in their advice, which helped me more times than I can count. So I cannot fathom how anyone could treat their elders so cruelly.
I met my fiancé, Oliver, six months ago. He charmed me from the start—tall, with a warm voice and impeccable manners. He seemed kind, thoughtful—the sort of man I could trust. I was so eager to introduce him to my family that I brought him home almost immediately. I expected them to adore him, but instead, I heard warnings—particularly from my Nan:
*“He’s too polished, Emily. Sweet words, but something cold underneath. I’d wash my hands after meeting him.”*
Her words stung. I wanted her support, not suspicion. I brushed it off, thinking she was just being protective. But when Oliver proposed, my happiness was quickly clouded by doubt. Nan’s warning echoed in my mind like a strike of lightning. Did I really know him at all? Did I want to spend my life with him? The questions gnawed at me.
The next day, Oliver invited me to his parents’ flat to announce our engagement. I agreed, though a heavy unease settled in my chest. He’d told me he lived alone in his grandmother’s old flat, while his parents and younger brother stayed in another part of town. From the way he spoke, I assumed his grandmother had passed—it added mystery to his stories.
At first, they welcomed me warmly—smiles, kind words, a table set for tea. Oliver’s younger brother, Alfie, seemed bored, but the rest appeared friendly. We chatted, laughed, and time passed easily—until I heard Oliver’s mother scold Alfie under her breath:
*“Just wait until they leave, then we’ll move the old woman out of sight.”*
I thought they were talking about a pet—a cat or dog called “Gran.” But then an elderly woman shuffled into the room, and my blood ran cold. It was Oliver’s grandmother—eighty years old, I later learned. His mother snapped at her:
*“What are you doing out here? I told you to stay in your room!”*
The grandmother, frail and hunched, muttered something about needing the loo. As Oliver and I left, I heard someone hiss behind the closed door: *“There she goes again!”* The words cut through me like glass.
On the way home, I asked Oliver about her. Why had he never mentioned her? His answers were cold, almost venomous:
*“What’s there to say? She barely moves. That’s why my parents took her in.”*
But I’d seen her walk—slow but steady. Bedridden? She was lively for her age! His words rang false, and the weight in my chest grew heavier. When I told Mum and Nan, they reassured me, and Nan promised to ask around.
A day later, she returned with news that turned my stomach. Oliver’s grandmother had only moved in a year ago, after her husband died. Before that, she’d lived alone. Neighbors had called the police before—Oliver’s father had hit her. And in their home, she didn’t even have a proper bed—just a worn-out sofa in the kitchen. One neighbor admitted hearing shouting, even the sound of a slap. But the grandmother, out of fear or pride, never complained.
I couldn’t process it. How could anyone treat their own flesh and blood like that? Their mother? And Oliver—how could he live comfortably in *her* flat while she suffered? My soul revolted at the thought. I realized I couldn’t marry someone who tolerated such cruelty. His family, his indifference—it was a line I couldn’t cross. I refuse to tie my life to people who see their grandmother as a burden.
The decision was painful, but final. I broke off the engagement, despite Oliver’s pleas. He claimed I was overreacting, but I no longer trusted a word he said. My conscience won’t let me join a family where love and respect mean nothing. I want a partner who cares for his family not out of duty, but from the heart. And Oliver and his lot? They’ve shown me exactly who they are.