My daughter became a mother far too earlyshe was only seventeen. A girl with wide, innocent eyes, dreaming of a life that was just beginning. She gave birth to a boy, moved back in with me, and I did everything I couldrocking the infant through sleepless nights, cooking, comforting her. Yet she kept saying,
This isnt my life. I want something different.
At nineteen she packed a suitcase and left for Dublin, promising work, pledging to send money, swearing shed give her son a better future. She vowed shed be back soon. A month passed and her phone number rang straight to a dead line.
From then on her voice vanished.
Sometimes Id spot a sunny photograph onlineher laughing on a beach with friends, looking perfectly content. But there was no call, no penny, no hows he doing?.
I shouldered everything alone.
I raised the boy myselfnursery, school, homework, fevers, bedtime stories. He grew up calling me Gran.
When he turned ten, she turned up unannounced, saying she wanted to see him. She stayed a month, took him on walks, bought a few outfits, left a handful of quid on the kitchen table. I dared to hope this time might be different. It wasnt. She disappeared again.
Two years of silence followed. I stopped waiting. I refused the bitterness, the courtroom dramas, the accusations. I simply lived for him.
At twelve she returned once more, declaring she was back for her son, as if he were a suitcase she could collect whenever it suited her.
I tried to refuse, but the law gave me no standing. A summons arrived for a mediation hearing.
In the courtroom, even as he sobbed and begged not to be taken, I said,
Take him. Ive done my part.
She drove him to another city. The pain was sharp, but I accepted it.
At first I saw him every two weeks, then less often, then only during school holidays. Each time he whispered,
Gran, this isnt my home.
I never cursed her. I only repeated softly,
One day youll understand.
The day finally came.
When he turned eighteen, he stood on my doorstep with a battered suitcase, tears glistening, and threw his arms around me, saying,
Gran, I want to live with you.
I didnt weep; I pulled him close and whispered,
This house will always be yours.
Now hes an adultstudying, dreaming, building his own life. His mother lives far away, and he doesnt look for her. He says he isnt angrytheres simply nothing left to argue about.
I feel a quiet peace.
I have fulfilled my duty.
The love I gave has come back to me.
My Daughter Became a Mum Too Soon—Just Seventeen, With Innocent Dreams and a Child’s Eyes. She Gave Birth to a Son, Lived with Me, and I Did My Best to Support Her—Cradling the Baby at Night, Cooking, and Comforting Her. But She Often Said:
