At five, I stood on my grandma’s porch, gripping my plush puppy as my mom, crying, said she had to leave. Her new husband, John, didn’t want kids, and she believed it was the right choice. I didn’t understand why she’d choose him, but her car’s fading engine left me sobbing. Grandma Clara, my dad’s mom, wrapped me in her arms, vowing I’d be okay. She became my world, cheering at my soccer games, cooking her famous chili, and listening to my dreams. Still, I ached for my mom, drawing pictures of us—picking flowers, reading stories—and hiding them in a box under my bed, hoping she’d return.
Grandma guided me through school, college, and my start as a nurse in the city. But last year, a heart attack took her, and my world crumbled. I felt lost, haunted by her absence. Then, one drizzly afternoon, my mom, now Susan, appeared at my door. Her face was older, her clothes upscale, but her eyes were familiar. She said she was sorry about Grandma and wanted to rebuild our bond. Part of me wanted to shut her out, but the child who’d drawn those pictures let her in. Susan explained her marriage to John ended, and she’d missed me every day. She begged for a chance to be my mom again, her voice heavy with regret.
I let her try. She called, took me to brunch, and teared up over old photos of me and Grandma, saying she wished she’d thanked her. But something felt off. She was always texting, snapping photos of us but never sharing them, and avoided talking about her life. One night, while we ate at my apartment, her phone buzzed when she stepped away. A message from a man named David said, “Excited to meet your daughter!” My heart raced as I read their chat. Susan had sent him our photo, claiming we were close. David had kids and wanted a motherly figure. She was using me to win his heart, not hers.
I stayed calm but gave her my box of drawings. Her tears flowed as she saw my childhood longing. “I’ll never leave,” she promised, hugging me. I didn’t hug back. She left the box behind, confirming her true motives. I stopped answering her calls and ignored her at my door. One evening, I tossed the drawings in the dumpster, recalling Grandma’s words: “You’re strong, Sarah.” I chose myself, refusing to be Susan’s prop. Letting go was painful, but it gave me peace, knowing my worth wasn’t tied to her false promises.
