When I was ten, my mother decided I didn’t belong in her new life—with a new husband and baby. One quiet day, she simply said, “You’re going to live with Grandma now.” I asked what I’d done wrong. “I have a real family now. You’re just… in the way.” So I left, heartbroken, to live with Grandma Brooke—who became everything my mother wasn’t. She loved me fiercely, reminded me I wasn’t a mistake, and promised I’d always have a home.
One year later, we attended a family dinner. I made my mother a card, hoping for love. She handed it to Jason, her son, and said, “Something for you.” That was the last time I tried to be part of her world. Years passed. I grew up, built a life, and Grandma never missed a moment. When she died, I was 32. At the funeral, my mother didn’t even look at me. Three days later, she knocked on my door.
