“Outside,” she said. “Not in school. She said she was my grandma and gave me her address. I recognized her from photos. She said she moved to be closer, that she missed me, that she knew you guys hated her, but she wanted to know me before…” She trailed off.
“Before what?” I asked.
“Before she dies,” Jordan said quietly. “She said she’s sick.”
“She didn’t want to ruin things for Dad again.”
My throat went dry.
“So you just… went with her?”
“The first time she only took me for ice cream,” Jordan said. “She cried a lot. Said she made mistakes with Dad. That she was stupid and proud and she’d do anything to take it back. She begged me not to tell you yet because she didn’t want to ruin things for Dad again.”
“Jordan,” I said, “do you have any idea how messed up that is? To put that on you?”
“Sometimes I really was at Alyssa’s.”
“I know,” she said, crying now. “But she was so lonely, Mom. Her apartment is tiny. She made pie and let me pick cartoons and showed me pictures of Dad as a kid. She’s the only grandma I have.”
She looked at me with this mixture of guilt and longing that just broke me.
“And the sleepovers?” I asked.
“Sometimes I really was at Alyssa’s,” she said. “But other times, Grandma would text me and ask if I could come. I’d tell you I was going to Alyssa’s and then take the bus to Grandma’s.”
“You know he could marry someone stable, right?”
I closed my eyes.
My husband’s mother and I have history.
When we started dating, he made a lot more money than I did. I came from a broke family and worked two jobs through community college. She never let me forget it.
She’d say things like, “You know he could marry someone stable, right?”
Or, “We didn’t pay for his education so he could support another person’s debt.”
I had reasons.
At our engagement dinner, she “joked” that I was “marrying up.”
My husband wasn’t having it. He told her if she couldn’t respect me, she didn’t get him.
He walked out. I followed. That was pretty much the end.
Once Jordan was born, there was one last blowup—some nasty comment about “our genes” and “what kind of family are we creating”—and he blocked her completely.
So yeah. I had reasons.
“Go to your room.”
I opened my eyes and looked at my daughter.
“I’m angry you lied,” I said. “I’m furious she dragged you into this. But I understand why you wanted a grandmother. I do.”
Jordan sniffled. “Are you going to make me stop seeing her?”
“I’m going to tell your father,” I said. “And then we’ll decide together. No more secrets. Do you understand me?”
She nodded, small and scared.
“Go to your room,” I said. “No phone. We’ll talk again when Dad gets home.”
I told him everything.
She walked down the hall like she was headed to her execution.
A few hours later, my husband came home.
He stepped into the kitchen, saw my face, then Jordan’s empty place at the table.
“What happened?” he asked.
“Sit,” I said.
I told him everything.
“Is it true?”
He went very still.
“She moved here?” he said. “Without saying anything?”
“Yep,” I said.
“And she saw our daughter behind our backs.”
I nodded.
He stared at the table, then he called Jordan out.
“She didn’t want to mess up with me.”
“Is it true?” he asked.
She nodded.
“I’m sorry, Dad,” she whispered. “I just wanted to know her.”
“You lied to us,” he said. “Over and over.”
“I know,” she said. “I’m grounded. I get it. I’m not mad about that. I just… I didn’t want her to die without me ever meeting her properly. She said she messed up with you and she didn’t want to mess up with me.”
We were quiet.
He flinched.
“Is she actually sick?” he asked.
Jordan nodded. “She has a bunch of medicines. She gets tired. She didn’t tell me everything, but… it’s bad.”
He put his head in his hands.
“I am so angry,” he said. “At you. At her. At myself. All of it.”
We were quiet.
It was a small, old apartment.
Then he lifted his head.
“I need to see her,” he said. “Right now.”
“Together,” I said.
He nodded.
We drove as a family. Jordan gave us the address.
It was a small, old apartment building across town.
She gripped the doorframe.
Jordan hesitated at the door, then knocked.
My mother-in-law opened it.
She looked older than I remembered. Thinner. Smaller. Like someone had turned the saturation down on her.
Her eyes went straight to Jordan. Then to her son. Then to me.
She gripped the doorframe.
“Oh,” she said softly.
“I’m so sorry.”
“Can we come in?” my husband asked.
“Of course,” she said.
We stepped inside.
The place was neat. Tiny. A blanket on the couch. Pill bottles on the counter.
She sat down slowly. Her hands shook.
“I’m so sorry,” she said. “To all of you.”
“I was awful to you.”
My husband crossed his arms.
“You went behind our backs,” he said. “You dragged my kid into your mess.”