I was ten years old when my mother decided I was a burden. She had a new family, a picture-perfect life she wanted to build, and I didn’t fit the vision. So, she gave me away like I was nothing, casting me aside to raise her “perfect son.”
But life has a way of balancing things. My grandmother took me in, loved me, and made me her own. And years later, the woman who abandoned me—the mother who erased me from her life—came knocking at my door, desperate and pleading.
There are moments in life when you realize that some wounds never truly heal. For me, that moment came at the age of 32 as I stood at my grandmother’s grave,
the rain soaking through my black dress. The only person who had ever truly loved me was gone, and across the cemetery stood the woman who had given birth to me. Read more below
