My daughter turned mother far too early she was only seventeen, still a wideeyed teen with dreams of a life just beginning. She gave birth to a boy, moved in with me, and I did what I could: I soothed the newborn at night, cooked, and tried to keep her morale up. Often shed sigh, This isnt my life. I want something else.
At nineteen she packed a bag and off she went to Australia, promising shed work, send money home, and give her son a brighter future. Ill be back before you know it, she said. A month later her mobile stopped working, and I never heard her voice again.
Every now and then a sunny photo would pop up on social media her smiling on a beach with friends. She looked happy, but there was no call, no penny transferred, no Hows the little lad? from her side.
I took it upon myself to raise the boy. I handled the nursery, the school runs, the homework, the fevers, the bedtime stories. He grew up calling me Mum.
When he turned ten, she suddenly appeared at the door, saying she just wanted to see him. She stayed a month, took him on walks, bought a few new shirts and toys, slipped a few pounds into my pocket. I allowed myself a flicker of hope that maybe this time things would be different. Yet she vanished again.
Two silent years passed. I stopped waiting, stopped counting the arguments she might have started. I simply lived for my grandson.
At twelve she reentered our lives, declaring she was back for her son, as if a child were a suitcase you could pick up and drop off whenever you felt like it. I tried to push her away, but I had no legal standing. The court sent me a summons for a mediation meeting.
There, while my grandson wept and begged not to be taken, I said, Take him. Ive done my part. She whisked him off to a different town. It hurt, but I made peace with it.
At first she brought him back every fortnight, then less often, then only for holidays. Each time he would whisper, Grandma, this isnt my home. I never said anything harsh. I just repeated softly, One day youll understand.
That day finally arrived. When he turned eighteen, he stood on my doorstep with a suitcase and tears in his eyes, hugged me tight and said, Grandma, I want to live with you. I didnt cry; I simply held him close and whispered, This house will always be yours.
Now hes an adult, studying, dreaming, building his own life. His mother lives far away, and he doesnt look for her. He says he isnt angry theres simply nothing left to argue about.
I feel calm now, because Ive done my duty. The love I poured out has somehow found its way back to me.
