When I was ten, my mother decided I no longer fit into her new “perfect” family, so she gave me away. My grandmother took me in and raised me with love and devotion. For years, I never saw my mother—until she showed up at Grandma’s funeral, not even looking at me.
I was born from an affair, and once she remarried and had my brother Jason, I became a burden. Grandma became my sanctuary. She supported me, loved me, and gave me a home. But the wound of being abandoned never truly healed.
At eleven, I brought my mom a handmade card. She gave it to Jason instead. That night was the last time I tried. She moved away and never reached out again.
Years passed. I built a life, went to college, got a career—but trust never came easy. Only Grandma was there through it all, until she died in her sleep. I was devastated.
Then, days after the funeral, my mother knocked on my door. She begged for help—Jason had just learned the truth from a message Grandma had secretly left him. He was angry at her for erasing me. She wanted me to defend her.
I refused—but gave her my number for Jason. A week later, I met him. He apologized for what he didn’t know. We talked for hours. He wasn’t like her. And slowly, we built the sibling bond we were denied.
Our mother tried to insert herself again, but we had made our choice. On Grandma’s birthday, we brought her yellow daisies. Across the cemetery, our mother stood alone. We didn’t speak. We just walked away.
Because in the end, family is who loves you. Who stays. Grandma chose me—and gave me back my brother.