I still remember the day my mother handed me off to my grandmother like I was a problem she couldn’t wait to get rid of. “You’ll live with Grandma now,” she said, as if she were telling me what to pack for a weekend trip.
I was ten. My brother, Jason, was just a baby. And while she kept him, she threw me away.
Grandma Brooke saved me. She loved me fiercely, raised me like her own, and made sure I never doubted my worth. But no amount of love could erase the question that lingered in my heart: Why wasn’t I enough for my own mother?
Years later, at Grandma’s funeral, I saw my mother again. She stood with her husband and Jason, the perfect family she had always wanted. She didn’t acknowledge me. Not a word, not a glance.
Then, out of nowhere, she came to my door.
“Jason knows about you,” she said, her voice trembling. “He won’t talk to me.”
Grandma had sent him a message before she died, telling him the truth—that his mother had cut me out of their lives. Now, he wanted nothing to do with her.
I could have laughed. I could have told her she deserved this. But all I felt was exhaustion.
“Give him my number,” I said. “If he wants to reach out, he can.”
Jason did. We met. We talked. And for the first time, I had a brother who actually wanted to know me.
As for my mother? She finally learned that some mistakes can’t be undone.
