A place where I was wanted and where someone’s eyes lit up when I walked into the room. She hung my artwork on the fridge, helped with my homework, and tucked me in every night.
Still, the wound of my mother’s rejection festered.
“Why doesn’t she want me?” I asked one night as Grandma brushed my hair before bed.
Her hands paused. “Oh, Becca.
Some people aren’t capable of the love they should give. It’s not your fault, honey. Never think it’s your fault.”
“But she loves Jason.”
Grandma resumed brushing, each stroke gentle and soothing.
“Your mother is broken in ways I couldn’t fix. I tried, God knows I tried. But she’s always run from her mistakes instead of facing them.”
“So I’m a mistake?”
“No, honey.
You are a gift. The best thing that ever happened to me. Your mother just can’t see past her own selfishness to recognize what she’s throwing away.”
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