At 32, standing in the rain by my grandmother’s grave, I realized some wounds never fully heal—they just become part of you. My grandmother was the only one who gave me true, unconditional love.
Nearby, my mother Pamela stood dry under an umbrella with her perfect family—her husband Charlie and their son Jason—never meeting my eyes. She chose Jason over me long ago, leaving me behind.
At ten, she sent me to live with Grandma, saying, “You don’t fit in our family.” Grandma’s home became my safe haven, filled with love and care, but the pain of abandonment lingered.
I asked Grandma why my mother didn’t love me. She said, “Some people are broken and hurt others to hide their own pain.”
Years later, at a family dinner meant to reconnect, my mother ignored me, giving attention only to Jason and dismissing the card I made for her.
That day, I stopped trying.