I was halfway through knitting a tiny yellow baby hat when my phone buzzed. It was a short message from my daughter’s fiancé: “She’s in labor.”
Without hesitation, I grabbed the baby gifts I’d been saving and rushed to the hospital. We hadn’t spoken in nearly a year after a painful argument, but I thought the birth of my first grandchild might help heal things.
At the front desk, I gave my daughter’s name, heart pounding. But the nurse’s face softened as she said, “I’m sorry—she’s not accepting visitors. She specifically asked not to let you in.”
I was stunned.
Hours later, Raul came out holding the baby. I asked if I could see her. He hesitated, then handed me an envelope. Inside was a letter—not addressed to “Mom,” just “Eleanor.”
In it, my daughter gently explained that while she still loved me, she needed space—to become a mother on her own terms, without feeling overshadowed. Her words hurt, but I couldn’t deny the truth in them.
In the following weeks, every photo of baby Mateo filled me with pride—and heartache. I love them deeply. I’m just learning to love from a distance, for now.