I was just five years old as my mom dropped me off at Grandma Rose’s doorstep, mascara running as she explained her new husband didn’t want kids.
“This is best for everyone,” she whispered and then kissed my forehead and walked away without looking back.
I cried, clutching my stuffed bunny, when Grandma wrapped me in her arms and promised I was safe.
Over the years, Grandma became my world—reading me bedtime stories, appearing at every school event, and filling our home with warmth.
However, late at night, I’d draw pictures of my mom and me, imagining a life where she had stayed.
I kept those drawings in a shoebox under my bed, and although I built a full life—with college, a job, and my own apartment—I never stopped wondering why she left.
Then, after Grandma’s sudden passing, I felt completely alone.
That’s when my mother suddenly appeared at my door, claiming she regretted everything.
She said she wanted to be part of my life again, and in spite of my hesitation, I let her in.
Initially, things felt hopeful—lunches together, teary conversations, and photos of old memories.
