The Family That Chose Me
I was just ten years old when my mother decided I was an inconvenience. She had built a new life, a new family, and I no longer fit the picture. So, she gave me away like an unwanted burden, all so she could focus on raising her “perfect son.”
It was my grandmother, Brooke, who stepped in—who loved me when my own mother wouldn’t. Years later, the woman who had once discarded me would show up at my door, asking for something I never thought I’d give.
There are some wounds that never truly heal. I realized this at 32, standing by my grandmother’s freshly covered grave, feeling the weight of loss settle deep in my chest.
Across the cemetery, my mother stood with her perfect family—her husband, Charlie, and the son she had chosen over me.
She never even looked at me.
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