Years passed. Grandma’s brown hair slowly turned gray, then nearly white. I graduated from high school, then college, found a job in marketing, and eventually moved into my own apartment in the city. Through every milestone, Grandma remained my anchor—my rock.
Then, last year, everything fell apart.
Mother-child relationship book
The call came on a Tuesday evening while I was working on a presentation. Grandma had suffered a massive heart attack. By the time I reached the hospital, she was gone.
I barely remember the funeral. One of Grandma’s friends organized everything while I drifted through it all in a daze. The weeks that followed felt hollow. I moved through my apartment like a ghost, constantly reaching for my phone to call Grandma—only to remember I couldn’t anymore.
Then, one rainy afternoon, there was a knock at my door.
I wasn’t expecting anyone, but I forced myself up and opened it. Standing there was my mother.
Twenty years had changed her, but I recognized her instantly. Her hair was carefully styled, her clothes expensive and designer—nothing like the simple dresses I remembered. But her eyes were the same deep brown as mine.
“Alexa,” she said softly. “It’s so amazing to see you. I… I heard about your grandma. I’m so sorry I couldn’t go to the funeral.”
I stood frozen, words failing me as a wave of emotions crashed over me.
“Can I come in?” she asked. “I know I don’t deserve it, but I’d like to explain.”
My heart screamed no. But that little five-year-old girl—the one who spent years drawing pictures of her missing mother—whispered yes. I stepped aside.
