Inside, I drew a picture of our family – me, my mum, stepdad, little brother and grandma. I coloured it in with whatever markers I had and made sure everyone was smiling. Because that’s how I wanted us to be…a real, happy family.
With hope in my eyes, I held out the drawing to her. ‘I made this for you.’
She barely glanced at it before handing it to my brother. ‘Here, sweetie. Something for you.’
I froze. This gift wasn’t for him. It was from me to my mum.
‘I have this for you.’
She waved her hand dismissively. ‘Oh, why would I want that? I have everything I want.’
Everything. Except for me.
Years of neglect hung between us. Grandma threw me a sympathetic look, but I forced myself to smile. I didn’t want them to see me break down.
‘Dinner’s ready,’ Charlie called out from the dining room, not paying attention to what was happening or choosing to ignore it.
‘Come on,’ Mum said, lifting Jason out of his highchair. ‘The roast will get cold.’
That was the last time I wanted to see my mother. After that night, I stopped trying. And she didn’t seem to care. She moved to another town soon after that and only occasionally called my grandmother. 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 a scholarship, got a job in marketing, and bought a small house next to my grandmother’s cottage. I dated, sometimes seriously, but relationships were difficult. Trust came hard when my own mother failed to love me.
My grandmother was my support in everything. She never missed a graduation, a birthday, or a milestone. She hung my college diploma next to my accomplishments. She made sure I knew I belonged to her.
But time is inexorable. My grandmother, my real parent, was getting older too. Her hands became numb from arthritis, her steps became slower, and her memory sometimes failed her.
‘Remember when you tried to teach me how to bake biscuits and we set off the smoke alarm?’ I asked one afternoon when we were walking in her favourite garden.
She laughed, a sound that still sounded musical despite her 78 years. ‘The neighbours thought the house was on fire. But that fireman was so handsome… I almost didn’t care about the embarrassment.’
‘You were shamelessly flirting with him,’ I teased.
‘Life’s too short not to flirt with handsome firemen, Rebecca.’ She patted my arm. ‘Promise me something?’
‘Anything.’
‘When I’m gone, don’t waste time being bitter. Your mother made her choice, and it was the wrong one. But don’t let those choices define your life.’
Despite the summer heat, I felt a chill. ‘You’re not going anywhere.’
She smiled sadly. ‘We all go somewhere sooner or later, honey. Just promise me you’ll live your life to the fullest. That’s all I’ve ever wanted for you.’
‘I promise,’ I whispered, resting my head on her shoulder as I had done countless times before.
Three months later, she was gone. A stroke in her sleep. ‘Peaceful and blessed, really,’ the doctor said.
But for me, it wasn’t a blessing.
I was 32 years old when I buried her. My mother and her family arrived, but I never saw remorse in her eyes. She didn’t even look at me during the service.
Without my grandmother, the house seemed empty. I wandered from room to room, touching her things-the knitted plaid on the couch, the collection of ceramic birds on the mantel, the tattered cookbook in the kitchen with her handwritten notes in the margins.
God, I missed her so much.
A few days after the funeral, there was a knock at my door. When I opened it, I froze.
It was my mum.
She looked older, with grey in her dark hair and wrinkles around her eyes and mouth that hadn’t been there before. But the eyes were still the same – distant and calculating.
‘Please,’ she whispered, clutching her purse with frantically clenched hands. ‘I just need to talk to you.’
Every instinct in me screamed to close the door and leave. But something in her tone, something almost…defeated, made me pause.
I crossed my arms. ‘Let’s talk.’
She exhaled and lowered her eyes before meeting my gaze. ‘Your brother knows about you.’
My breath caught. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Before she died, your grandmother sent him a message. And told him everything.’
I swallowed hard.
‘He was too young to remember you, Rebecca. And I… I didn’t let your grandmother talk to him about you. I told her that if she did, she’d never see him again.’
My stomach rumbled. It was worse than I could have imagined. My mother hadn’t just abandoned me…she’d destroyed me.
She must have seen the horror on my face because she rushed to explain. ‘I thought I was doing the right thing! You had a grandmother and I had a family…’
‘You had a family,’ I cut in. ‘You decided I wasn’t a part of it.’