When I was ten, my mother decided I no longer fit into her perfect new life and left me with my grandmother, walking away without regret. Grandma raised me with constant love until she passed away when I was 32.
At her funeral, my mother appeared with her husband and her favored son, Jason, and ignored me completely. Days later, she showed up in a panic—Jason had learned from a message Grandma left that I was his half-sibling, a secret our mother had kept from him.
I agreed to meet Jason for my own reasons, not to help her. He apologized for something that was never his fault, and together we looked through the photos and letters Grandma had saved for him. That meeting turned into hours of conversation and the beginning of a bond our mother had denied us.
As weeks passed, Jason and I grew closer, while our mother’s calls and pleas went unanswered. We knew she hadn’t changed and owed her nothing.
On Grandma’s birthday, we brought yellow daisies to her grave. Our mother watched from afar, alone. We left together, reminded of what Grandma taught us: family isn’t about blood—it’s about who stays.