My mother decided I was a burden when I was ten years old. I didn’t fit the picture-perfect life she intended to create with her new family. In order to nurture her “perfect son,” she abandoned me and handed me away as if I were nothing.
However, everything are balanced in life. I was adopted, adored, and made my own by my grandmother. And years later, the mother who tore me out of her life—the woman who left me behind—knocked at my door, begging and desperate.
You come to the realization that some wounds never fully heal at certain points in your life. That moment for me occurred when I was thirty-two years old and standing in the rain at my grandmother’s grave.
The woman who had given birth to me was standing across the graveyard, and the one person who had ever truly loved me was no longer there.
She didn’t even turn to face me.
It had been years since I last saw my mother. Not since the day mother determined that I wasn’t worthy of being raised, but my younger brother Jason was.
I didn’t blink away the rain that made my eyesight blurry. Rather, I concentrated on the new pile of earth that covered my Grandma Brooke, the woman who had been my real mother. She had been everything to me—my savior and protector. And now that she was gone, I had an empty heart that nothing could ever fill.
My mother, Pamela, was standing under an umbrella with her golden child, Jason, between her and her husband, Charlie. They appeared to be the ideal small family.
Apart from the fact that she had discarded her daughter, who was her firstborn child.
Every now and then she dabbed at her eyes, but I knew better. It was merely a performance for her audience; there were no actual tears. She turned and left without saying anything to me after the funeral, just like she had done when I was a youngster 22 years prior.
I remained motionless, gazing at the tomb.
I muttered, “Gramma, I don’t know how I’m going to handle this without you.”
A short affair gave birth to me. I had never really been wanted by my mother. As a reminder of a past she didn’t want to face, I was a bother. She then married Charlie and had their ideal son, Jason, when I was 10 years old.
All at once, I was nothing.
I still recall the day she informed me that I would no longer be living with her.
She was sitting with Grandma Brooke at the kitchen table when she said, “Rebecca, come here.”
A glimmer of optimism blossomed in my chest as I entered. Perhaps, just possibly, she wanted to speak with me—to bring me back into her life.
However, the words she spoke broke my heart.
You will now reside with Grandma.
I blinked. “For the weekend, perhaps?”
She answered, “No,” without even glancing at me. “Indefinitely. From now on, Grandma will look after you.
I looked to my grandmother, looking for some answer on her face. Her face was tense, a mix of anger and grief.
“But why?” I inquired. “Did I make a mistake?”
My mother yelled, “Don’t make this more difficult than it needs to be.” “I now have a real family.” You’re simply getting in the way.
My heart broke at that very moment.
Grandma’s hand smacked onto the table. “Enough, Pamela! For crying out loud, she is a kid. Your kid.
However, my mom only shrugged. “I’ve already paid too much for this error. I’ll find someone who will take her, or you can take her.
That was it. She got rid of me that simply.
“Pack your things, sweetheart,” Grandma whispered as she drew me into her embrace. We’ll work this out. I swear.
She also did.
My haven was Grandma’s house. It was intimate, compact, and brimming with affection. She snuggled me in every night, helped me with my homework, and hung my paintings on the refrigerator. She gave me a sense of importance.
But despite her devotion, I couldn’t get the question out of my head:
What prevented my mother from wanting me?
I finally questioned, “Why doesn’t Grandma love me?” when she was brushing my hair before bed one evening.
After a brief break, she started brushing again. “Oh, Becca. Some people lack the capacity to love others as they ought to. Honey, it’s not your fault. Never blame yourself for it.
But she’s in love with Jason,” I muttered.
Grandma sighed. “Your mother is broken in ways I couldn’t fix. She’s always run from her mistakes instead of facing them.”
“So I’m a mistake?” My voice was barely audible.
She turned me toward her, cupping my face gently. “No, honey. You are a gift. The best thing that ever happened to me. Your mother just can’t see past her own selfishness to recognize what she’s throwing away.”
That was the first time I truly realized that family isn’t always the people who give birth to you. Sometimes, family is the one who chooses you.
Years passed. I grew up, went to college on scholarships, and built a life of my own. Grandma was there for every milestone—my graduation, my first job, my first apartment. She made sure I knew I belonged.
However, time is unkind. Slowly, she grew older. Then she disappeared one day.
Then all of a sudden my mother was back.
I heard someone knock on my door a few days after the funeral. I froze as I opened it.
She was the one.
Pamela was older than I had recalled as she stood there. Her dark hair was streaked with gray, and there were more wrinkles around her mouth. Her eyes, though? Her gaze remained detached and calculating.
“Please,” she muttered, clutching her handbag. “I simply must speak.”
It was my instinct to slam the door in her face. But I paused because of something in her tone.
With my arms crossed, I said, “Talk.”
She gave a quick exhale. “Your brother is aware of you.”
I tensed up. “What do you mean?”
“Your grandmother sent him a message before she died. She let him in on everything.
My breath caught in my chest.
Rebecca, he was too young to recall you. Additionally, I I made sure your grandmother never mentioned you. I warned her that she would never see him again if she did.
I felt a rush of frigid rage come over me. Not only had my mother left me behind, but she had completely obliterated me.
She must have hurried to explain after noticing my expression. “I believed I was acting appropriately! I had my family, and you had your grandmother—
I interrupted icily, “You had a family.” “You chose not to include me in it.”
Her mouth quivered. Jason refuses to talk to me. He has been enraged since learning the truth. I can’t get him to return my calls. He believes me to be a monster.
I gave a halting laugh. “And what? Do you want me to make this right?
She took a swallow. “Please. Simply speak with him. Inform him that I’m not—
“Isn’t it a monster?” I was done. “You threatened Grandma to keep your secret, left me at ten, and acted as though I didn’t exist.” What else would make you a monster if that didn’t?
Her eyes filled with tears, but I didn’t care. Years ago, I had shed enough tears for her.
I was still hesitant, though, not for her, but for Jason. She had removed me from his life when he was a newborn. He was never able to get to know me.
“I’ll get his number,” I said at last.
Her expression lit up with relief—until she understood what I meant.
I wasn’t phoning her. I was phoning him.
I explained, “You can give him my number.” He is free to choose whether or not to speak with me. And if he chooses not to speak with you, that is also his decision.
“Please, Rebecca—”
I said, “Goodbye, Mom,” and then I carefully shut the door.
A week later, Jason gave me a call. I had a genuine talk with my brother for the first time when we met. My mother had attempted to take it away from me.
And I didn’t respond when she returned to my door a few weeks later.
Twenty-two years ago, she had made her decision.
I had made mine now.