When I was 11, Grandma insisted we attend a “family dinner.”
She believed it was important to maintain some kind of connection.
Deep down, I hoped—just hoped—that my mother would finally realize what she had thrown away.
But when we arrived, I saw her laughing, doting on Jason like I had never existed.
He sat in his high chair, mashed potatoes smeared across his cheeks, and she wiped them away so gently it made my chest ache.
She barely looked at me.
“Hey, Mom,” I said, forcing a smile.
She frowned.
“Oh! You’re here.”
My chest tightened, but I swallowed the pain.
I reached into my pocket and pulled out a small handmade card—slightly wrinkled, but made with care.
“I made this for you.”
Inside, I had drawn our family—me, her, Charlie, baby Jason, and Grandma.
All smiling.
All together.
The way I wished we were.
She barely glanced at it before handing it to Jason.
“Here, honey. Something for you.”
I froze.
“I-I got that for you.”
She waved her hand dismissively.
“Oh, what would I need it for? I have everything I want.”
Everything.
Except me.
That night was the last time I ever tried.
After that, I stopped reaching out.
And she didn’t care.
Not long after, she moved away.
She called Grandma occasionally.
But she never once called me.
