“You’re right, Mom. He’s MY responsibility. So I’m moving out. But since you made it clear you want nothing to do with your grandson, I’m honoring that. Don’t expect visits. Don’t expect calls. You wanted boundaries? Here they are.”
I read it three times before it sank in.
Six months passed.
No calls. No messages. No pictures. Nothing.
At first, I told myself she was being dramatic. That she’d come around. That once reality hit her, she’d need me again.
But weeks turned into months, and the house stayed quiet. Too quiet. I’d catch myself listening for a baby’s cry that never came, or opening the fridge and remembering how she used to label bottles with dates and tiny hearts.
Then my body betrayed me.
The fatigue came first. Then numbness in my hands. Dizziness. Fear I couldn’t shake. After tests and scans, a doctor sat across from me and said words that felt unreal: early-stage multiple sclerosis.
I went home shaking.
That night, I stared at my phone for an hour before finally sending her a message. I told her I was sick. That I was scared. That I needed her. I needed my daughter.
She called the next day.
Her voice was calm. Too calm.
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