I never imagined I’d be sharing this story, yet here I am. Sometimes, when your heart is broken by the very person you gave everything for, telling the truth is the only way to heal.
My name is Linda, I’m 57, and for decades, my world revolved around one person: my daughter, Chloe. I raised her alone after her father walked out the day she was born, whispering, “I’m not ready for this,” before disappearing forever. From that moment, it was just Chloe and me.
I worked two jobs—waitressing by day, cleaning offices by night—coming home exhausted but always checking on her before bed. I braided her hair, packed her lunches, never missed a recital, a game, or a storm she was scared of. Every choice I made, every sacrifice, was for her.
When Chloe met Ryan, I was genuinely happy. And when she called one spring afternoon with tears of joy saying, “Mom, I’m pregnant!” I nearly dropped the phone. I spent months knitting tiny sweaters, crocheting a baby blanket, dreaming of holding my granddaughter, Ava, and singing the lullabies I once sang to Chloe.
The happiest moment came when Ava was born. I held her tiny fingers and cried, whispering, “Welcome to the world, sweetheart. Grandma loves you.”
Continue reading on next page…