The memory of that day is crystal clear after 20 years. I was five, clutching my stuffed bunny on Grandma Rose’s porch while Mom knelt beside me, mascara streaked, saying, “Mark doesn’t want kids in his new home—this is best for everyone.” I didn’t fully grasp it—Mark was Dad’s replacement and never liked me—but I felt the moment she left.
Grandma Rose took me in, comforting me with bedtime stories and becoming my world. She supported me through school, meals, and heartbreak. All I did was miss Mom, secretly drawing pictures of us together and stashing them in a shoebox under my bed.
Years passed: school, college, a city job, and Grandma’s eventual death last year. Her loss hit me hard. Then, unexpectedly, Mom reappeared, older, polished, and professing regret. She moved back in, calling, taking me out, weeping over old photos.
But something felt off. When I caught her texting a man named Richard—pretending I’m her daughter to impress him—I realized she’d never truly returned for me.
I handed her the shoebox of childhood drawings. As she cried and apologized, I felt nothing. She left the shoebox behind—and soon after I left her calls and visits unanswered.
One night, I threw the box away. Remembering Grandma Rose’s words—“You are strong, worthy. Never forget that”—I chose to prioritize myself.