When I was just ten years old, my mother decided I didn’t belong in her new family. She had remarried, had a baby boy, and I no longer fit into her picture-perfect life. So she gave me away — not to strangers, but to my grandmother, as if I were a burden she couldn’t carry anymore. That moment changed everything. I remember asking, “Did I do something wrong?” Her reply was cold: “I have a real family now. You’re just… in the way.”
My grandmother, Brooke, stood up for me that day. She took me in, promised to protect me, and from that point on, she became my only real parent. Grandma Brooke gave me the love and stability I had never received from my mother. She celebrated my birthdays, helped with school, and filled our home with warmth and kindness. She always reminded me: “You are not a mistake. You’re a gift.” Still, deep down, I never stopped wondering why my own mother couldn’t love me.
Years passed. I grew up in Grandma’s care, built a life for myself, and tried not to let my mother’s rejection define me. But no matter how far I went, the wound remained. And then, when I was 32, Grandma died…