When I was ten, my mom gave me away. She had a new husband and baby, and didn’t want me anymore. “You’re going to live with Grandma,” she said without emotion. “You’re just in the way.” That was the last time she really saw me as her daughter.
My Grandma Brooke took care of me without question. She was there for every school event, birthday, and moment I felt sad. When I asked why my mom didn’t love me, Grandma said, “Some people only love themselves. But that doesn’t mean you’re not lovable.” She was right. Years later, at 32, I stood by Grandma’s grave—my last source of love now gone. Nearby, I saw my mom—still neat, still distant. She didn’t even look at me or say a word.
A few days later, my mom came to my house. Her son Jason—my half-brother—had found out the truth. Before Grandma died, she sent him a message explaining everything: how my mom gave me away and never told him about me. Now Jason was upset and wasn’t talking to her. My mom wanted me to fix things. I said no. But I gave Jason my phone number and said it was up to him if he wanted to reach out.
He did. We met at a café. He told me he always wanted a sibling. Our mom had lied and said she couldn’t have more kids. “Grandma gave me you,” he said. That’s when we started to become close. While our mom kept calling and showing up, I ignored her. She made her choice when I was ten.
On Grandma’s birthday, Jason and I brought yellow daisies to her grave. We saw our mom nearby, standing alone. “We don’t have to talk to her,” Jason said. “No,” I replied. “We don’t.” Because family isn’t just who you’re related to—it’s who chooses to love you. Grandma didn’t just save me—she gave me my brother, too. And this is just the beginning of our story.