She seemed stunned but didn’t argue.
I knew she had nowhere else to go. Her own mother wouldn’t take her.
Later, I found a note she left behind, trying to guilt-trip me, saying I was “all she had left.” She truly didn’t understand why I did what I did.
I had done my part. Opened my home. Raised her kids when she wouldn’t. Buried my son. I was done.
She cried, begged me, and asked, “What about the boys?”
And I told her plainly: I don’t owe you anything. I tolerated you for Daniel’s sake. He’s gone now.
So go. She could have left ages ago if she had any dignity. But she stayed, shamelessly.
Here’s the part that I know will get me hate: I wanted to keep Caleb. Not legally adopt him, but I asked Amanda if I could raise him myself.
I was the one who bottle-fed him when she disappeared for hours to “buy groceries.”
He clung to me. He called me “Nana.” I didn’t care if he wasn’t Daniel’s — he felt like mine.
Amanda screamed at me, called me a monster, took both kids, and left. I have no idea where they are now.
Maybe they’re bouncing between couches or staying in a shelter. I just don’t know.
My house is quiet now. Peaceful. I lit a candle by Daniel’s picture, and I finally feel like I’m honoring him by getting rid of the chaos that broke him down.
People tell me, “But they’re your grandchildren!” Are they, though? If one of them isn’t even Daniel’s, I trust what my heart tells me.
So, how am I supposed to feel anything else? I did what I had to do. Am I wrong?
