I was ten when my mother gave me away. She had a new husband and baby and no room left for the daughter from a past she wanted to forget. “You’re going to live with Grandma now,” she said coldly. “You’re in the way.” That was the last time she truly acknowledged me.
My grandmother, Brooke, took me in without hesitation. She showed up for every school play, birthday, and heartbreak. When I asked why my mother didn’t love me, she said, “Some people can’t love anyone but themselves. But that doesn’t mean you’re unlovable.” She was right. At 32, I stood at Grandma’s grave—my last anchor gone. Across the cemetery was my mother, still polished, still cold. No glance. No words.
