The moment plays back in my mind with brutal clarity every time I think about it. A harmless family lunch, sunlight pouring across the table, everyone relaxed and smiling — and then little Amy, with her big, trusting eyes, looked up at me and called me “Grandma.” It should have been sweet. It should have been nothing more than a child reaching out. Instead, something tight and cold snapped inside me, and I answered with a sharp tone I didn’t even recognize as my own. “I’m not your grandmother.” The words hit the air like a slap. The whole room froze. Amy’s smile faded, replaced by the kind of confusion only a child feels when they’ve unknowingly stepped somewhere they shouldn’t.
I told myself it was just instinct — that I’d spoken before thinking — but the truth was uglier. It was fear. Fear of being replaced. Fear of change. Fear of stepping into a new role I hadn’t prepared myself for. That night, I barely slept. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Amy’s startled expression, the way her little shoulders tensed, and the silence that followed my outburst. She wasn’t trying to put pressure on me. She wasn’t asking me to forget anyone or anything. She was just offering affection, the simple, unfiltered kind only children manage without hesitation. And I had shut the door in her face.
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