Off The Record
Mom Left Me At 10 To Raise Her “Golden Boy”—Grandma Made Her Regret It
My mother decided I was a burden when I was ten years old. I was no longer a part of her new family. My grandma took me in and loved me, but she got rid of me and gave me away as if I were nothing in order to raise her “perfect son.” The woman who left me arrived at my door years later. pleading.
You come to the realization that certain wounds never go away. That moment for me occurred when I was 32 and standing at my grandmother’s grave. The woman who gave birth to me and left me standing across the cemetery, without even looking at me, and the one person who had ever truly loved me was no longer with me.
It had been years since I last saw my mother. Not since she deemed my brother worthy of being raised. However, I wasn’t.
That day, as I watched them lowering Grandma Brooke’s coffin into the earth, torrents of rain soaked through my black clothes. Under an umbrella, my mother Pamela was surrounded by her ideal family, which included her husband Charlie and their son Jason. my stand-in and the “golden” child deserving of her affection.
She didn’t cry. Not at all. For show, she only dabbed at her eyes every now and then.
She turned and left without saying anything to me, just as she had done when I was ten years ago, twenty-two years ago. I stayed put, by myself with the new pile of soil that encased the only parent I had ever truly known.
“I don’t know how to do this without you, Grandma,” I said in a solemn whisper.
My mother never wanted me, and I was the result of a short-lived affair. She married my stepfather Charlie when I was ten years old, and they had their “perfect son” named Jason. All of a sudden, I was just a reminder of her previous error.
She informed me that I would no longer be living with them, and I can still clearly recall that day.
She called, “Rebecca, come here,” from where she sat with Grandma Brooke at the kitchen table.
With optimism blossoming in my chest, I entered.
I said, “Yes, Mom?” She no longer talked to me personally very often.
Her eyes were far away and icy. “You’re going to live with Grandma now.”
At first, the words didn’t make sense. “Like… for the weekend?”
“No,” she responded, avoiding eye contact. “Permanently. Grandma’s going to take care of you from now on.”
Grandma’s face was tense with grief and rage when I glanced at her.
“But why? Did I do something wrong?”
My mother yelled, “Don’t make this more difficult than it needs to be.” “I have a real family now. You’re just… in the way.”
The table was smacked by Grandma’s hand. “Enough, Pamela! She’s a child, for God’s sake. Your child.”
My mom gave a shrug. “A mistake I’ve paid for long enough. Either you take her, or I’ll find someone who will.”
Invisible to the woman who gave birth to me, I stood there with tears running down my cheeks.
Grandma put her arms around me and murmured softly, “Pack your things, sweetheart. I promise we’ll make this work.”
My haven was Grandma’s house. Someone’s eyes brightened up when I entered the room, and I felt like I was wanted. She helped me with my homework, tucked me in every night, and hung my artwork on the refrigerator.
The scar from my mother’s rejection persisted, though.
One evening when Grandma was brushing my hair before bed, I questioned, “Why doesn’t she want me?”
Her hands hesitated. “Oh, Becca. Some people aren’t capable of the love they should give. It’s not your fault, honey. Never think it’s your fault.”
“But she loves Jason.”
Grandma started brushing again, her strokes soft and calming. “Your mother is broken in ways I couldn’t fix. I tried, God knows I tried. But she’s always run from her mistakes instead of facing them.”
“So I’m a mistake?”
“No, honey. You are a gift. The best thing that ever happened to me. Your mother just can’t see past her own selfishness to recognize what she’s throwing away.”
I inhaled the aroma of lavender that clung to her clothing as I leaned into her hug.
I muttered, “Will you ever leave me too, Grandma?”
“Never,” she uttered angrily. “As long as there’s breath in my body, you will always have a home with me.”
“Promise?”
“I promise.”
When I was eleven years old, Grandma insisted that we come over for a “family dinner.” She believed that it was crucial to keep some kind of relationship, no matter how shaky. I secretly hoped my mother would accept me back with open arms after realizing what she had thrown away.
She was laughing and proud as I walked in, showing off her affection for my brother. As if she had never left me. Jason, a one-year-old, sat in a high chair with his plump face covered in mashed potatoes. My chest hurt from the gentleness with which my mother wiped it away.
She hardly gave me a look.
“Hey, Mom,” I put on a fake smile.
She scowled. “Oh! You’re here.”
I reached inside my pocket and swallowed the pain as my chest constricted. I took out a little handmade card that was a little wrinkled. I had worked on it for hours, folding the paper neatly and writing “I Love You, Mom” on the front in my best handwriting.
I had sketched a picture of my mother, my stepfather, my newborn brother, my grandma, and myself within. Using the little markers I had, I had colored it, making sure to make everyone grin. Because I wanted us to be like that. A true, contented family.
I held it out to her with eager eyes. “I made this for you.”
Before giving it to my brother, she hardly gave it a glance. “Here, honey. Something for you.”
I went cold. He didn’t receive that gift. I gave it to my mother.
“I-I got that for you.”
She dismissed it with a wave of her hand. “Oh, what would I need it for? I have everything I want.”
Everything. except from me.
We were separated by years of neglect. I mustered a grin, but my grandmother gave me a pitying look. I refused to let them witness my breakdown.
Charlie hollered from the dining room, “Dinner’s ready,” either unaware of the occasion or deciding to disregard it.
My mother responded, “Come on,” as she raised Jason out of his high chair. “The roast will get cold.”
I never wanted to see my mother again after that. I gave off trying after that evening. She also seemed unconcerned. Shortly after, she relocated to a different place and only sometimes contacted my grandmother. However, she never gave me a call.
Years went by. I grew up, established my own life, and became a successful woman. I obtained a marketing job, attended college on scholarships, and purchased a modest home close to Grandma’s cottage. Relationships were difficult, even if I occasionally dated seriously. When my own mother was unable to love me, trust was difficult to come by.
Through it all, Grandma was my pillar of support. She was always present for milestones, birthdays, and graduations. She displayed her accomplishments next to my college degree. She made sure I understood my place.
However, time is unrelenting. My real parent, my grandmother, also grew older. Her memory was occasionally cloudy, her movements slowed, and her hands grew twisted with arthritis.
One afternoon, as we strolled through her cherished garden, I inquired, “Remember when you tried to teach me to bake cookies and we set off the smoke alarm?”
Even at 78 years old, her laugh was still melodic. “The neighbors thought the house was on fire. That fireman was so handsome, though… I almost didn’t mind the embarrassment.”
I made fun of him by saying, “You flirted with him shamelessly,”
She squeezed my hand and said, “Life’s too short not to flirt with handsome firemen, Rebecca.” “Promise me something?”
“Anything.”
“When I’m gone, don’t waste time on bitterness. Your mother made her choice, and it was the wrong one. But don’t let that choice define your life.”
Despite the July heat, I felt cold. “You’re not going anywhere.”
She gave a sorrowful smile. “We all go somewhere eventually, honey. Just promise me you’ll live fully. That’s all I’ve ever wanted for you.”
Whispering, “I promise,” I put my head on her shoulder like I had done innumerable times before.
She vanished three months later. a stroke when she was asleep. The doctor described it as “peaceful and a blessing, really,”
However, I didn’t consider it a blessing.
When I buried her, I was thirty-two. I never really noticed any regret in my mother’s eyes when she and her family came. Throughout the service, she didn’t even glance at me.
Without Grandma, the house felt empty. I went from room to room, touching her belongings, including the worn cookbook in the kitchen with her handwritten comments in the margins, the crocheted blanket on the couch, and the assortment of ceramic birds on the fireplace.
God, I really missed her.
My door was knocked on a few days after the funeral. I froze as I opened it.
My mom was the one.
With gray strands running through her black hair and previously absent lines around her mouth and eyes, she appeared older. However, her eyes remained the same: aloof and cunning.
“Please,” she muttered, her white-knuckled hands clutching her pocketbook. “I just need to talk to you.”
All of my instincts told me to close the door and leave. However, there was something nearly… about her tone. dejected, caused me to stop.
I folded my arms. “Talk.”
She let out a breath, glanced down, and then looked up at me. “Your brother knows about you.”
My breath caught. “What do you mean?”
“Before she passed, your grandmother sent him a message. And told him everything.”
I took a deep breath.
“He was too young to remember you, Rebecca. And I… I didn’t let your grandmother talk about you to him. I told her if she did, she’d never see him again.”
My stomach rumbled. It was worse than I thought it would be. Not only did my mother leave me… I was erased by her.
She hurried to explain after noticing the fear on my face. “I thought I was doing the right thing! You had your grandmother, and I had my family —”
I interjected, “You had a family,” “You decided I wasn’t part of it.”
Her lip quivered. “He won’t speak to me, not since he read the message last night. His phone fell in the water and had been switched off for days… and he’s just gotten the message from Grandma after turning it on last night. He’s mad at me for hiding you from him. I need you to talk to him. Tell him I’m not a monster.”
I gave a halting laugh. “Not a monster? You abandoned your daughter at ten, pretended she didn’t exist, and threatened your own mother just to keep your secret. What would make you a monster, then?”
Her eyes filled with tears, but I was unmoved. Years ago, I had cried enough for her.
Nevertheless, I hesitated in spite of everything. For my brother, not for her.
I thought he had forgotten me throughout my life. However, he was never given the opportunity to get to know me. A woman who just viewed me as a barrier was manipulating him like a child.
I stated bluntly, “I’ll take his number,” though.
My mom let out a sigh of relief, but when she understood what I meant, her expression darkened. It was not me who called for her. I was phoning him.
I clarified, “You can give him my number,” “If he wants to talk to me, that’s his choice. And if he doesn’t want to talk to you…” I sighed. “That’s his choice too.”
“Rebecca, please —”
I said, “Goodbye, Mom,” and then I carefully shut the door.
A week later, at a peaceful café on the other side of town, I ran into Jason, my heart racing. He had our mother’s dark hair and was tall, but he had a good heart.
His expression softened when he saw me, but he still looked scared.
“I’m so sorry,” was the first thing he said.
I gazed at him. “You don’t have to apologize. You didn’t do anything wrong.”
He swallowed hard, “But I…” “I didn’t know. She never told me. I only found out because of Grandma’s message. I can’t believe she did that to you.”
I looked for any hint of dishonesty in his expression. However, there was none. When that occurred, he was only a child. This was not his choice.
“You’re nothing like her, Jason.”
In relief, his shoulders slumped. “I’ve been so angry since I found out. It’s like… everything I thought I knew about Mom was a lie.”
“How did you find out exactly?”
Jason combed his hair with his hand. “I got this email from Grandma. It had pictures of you, stories about you… things Mom never told me. And a letter explaining everything.”
I responded, “She was always clever,” with a melancholy smile pulling at my mouth. “Even from beyond the grave, she was looking out for us.”
“She wrote that she promised not to tell me while she was alive because she was afraid Mom would cut me off from her completely.” He was shaking his head. “I can’t imagine being forced to make that choice. It’s so cruel.”
When I said, “That’s who Mom is,” “She makes everything a transaction.”
After nodding, he took out his phone. “I have the pictures Grandma sent, if you want to see them?”
For the next hour, we looked at pictures of a life that was connected but distinct. Grandma had bridged the gap that mother had created between us by recording everything for him.
Jason uttered the words, “I always wanted a sibling,” gently. “I used to beg for a brother or sister. Mom always said she couldn’t have more children after me. Another lie.”
I pushed aside my empty coffee cup and added, “You know, we can’t change the past, but we can choose what happens next.”
With a tentative smile on his face, he nodded. “I’d like to know my sister, if that’s okay with you.”
I allowed myself to experience a connection to family that wasn’t based on duty or sympathy for the first time in more than 20 years.
I said, “I’d like that,” “I’d like that very much.”
We continued our conversation over the ensuing weeks. I told him about my childhood, my upbringing by Grandma, and how I wondered for years if he ever gave me any attention.
He also shared our mother’s story with me. About how she had never given him the freedom to choose for himself and had always been stifling and domineering.
On a cool fall day, we met at a park while strolling along leaf-covered walkways.
When he said, “Mom’s been calling me nonstop,” “Showing up at my apartment. She even contacted my work.”
“That sounds like her. When she wants something, she doesn’t stop.”
“She always acted like the perfect mom, Rebecca. I thought she was just overprotective, but now I realize… she’s just selfish. Everything has always been about her image, her comfort, and her needs.”
“Has she always been like that with you?”
A heap of leaves was kicked at by him. “Yeah, I guess so. I just didn’t see it clearly until now. Nothing I did was ever quite good enough unless it made her look good too.”
At that moment, we both realized that we owed her nothing.
Weeks went by. The one thing Mom had tried to hide from me was that I had a bond with my brother. She continued to call, leave messages, and even return to my door.
However, I didn’t answer when she knocked this time. Twenty-two years ago, she had made her decision. And I’d made mine now.
Jason and I met at Grandma’s cemetery on the day that would have been her birthday. We silently stood and laid her favorite yellow daisies down.
Jason remarked, “I wish I’d known her better,” “Really known her.”
I told him, “She would have loved you,” “Not because you’re perfect, but because you’re you.”
I noticed something across the cemetery as we made our way back to our automobiles. A well-known person was there and observing us.
Our mom.
Jason tensed next to me when he noticed her too.
“We don’t have to talk to her,” I replied.
He gave a headshake. “No, we don’t.”
She stood alone amid the gravestones while we climbed into our cars and drove off.
Ultimately, you are not necessarily born into a family. Sometimes it’s who choose to stay after seeing you. I was picked by Grandma. And she returned the brother I never knew to me in her last act of affection.
Certain wounds never fully recover. However, fresh life can still develop around the scars.
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