Even after twenty years, I remember the day my mother left me clearly. I was five, clutching my stuffed bunny on Grandma Rose’s porch as Mom explained she couldn’t take me—her new husband didn’t want children. She drove away, and I was left crying in Grandma’s arms.
Grandma Rose became my world. She raised me, cheered at every recital, listened to every worry. Still, I missed my mother. I drew pictures of her—us together, happy—tucking them into a shoebox under my bed. Grandma told me, “Some people just don’t know how to love the right way.”
Years passed. College, a career, an apartment. Grandma was my anchor—until she died suddenly. Grief left me hollow. Then, one rainy afternoon, my mother appeared. Evelyn, she called herself now. She apologized, claimed regret, and begged to be part of my life again.
I let her in. At first, it felt good. But something felt off. I discovered messages to a man named Richard, showing our photos, calling me her daughter—using me to present herself as the perfect woman for him.
When she left again, I retrieved the shoebox of drawings and handed it to her. She hugged me, cried, promised never to leave—but I didn’t hug back. That night, I threw the shoebox into the dumpster.
Grandma Rose’s words echoed: “You are strong. Never forget your worth.”
I chose myself. I would no longer be part of my mother’s story.