And she didn’t seem to care. Not long after, she moved to another city and only called my grandmother occasionally. But she never called me.
Years passed.
I grew up, became a successful woman, and built a life of my own. I went to college on scholarships, got a job in marketing, and bought a small house near Grandma’s cottage. I dated, sometimes seriously, but relationships were hard.
Trust didn’t come easily when my own mother couldn’t love me.
Grandma was my rock through everything. She never missed a graduation, a birthday, or a milestone. She hung my college diploma next to her achievements.
She made sure I knew I belonged.
But time is relentless. My grandmother, my true parent, grew older too. Her hands became gnarled with arthritis, her steps slower, and her memory was sometimes foggy.
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