I raised my grandson from the time he was two. His mother had left, and I became the one who read bedtime stories, kissed scraped knees, and gave him a sense of home. For ten years, he was my world.
Then she returned with a lawyer and said, “Thanks for your services. I’ll take it from here.”
And just like that, they were gone.
The silence that followed felt like living in a house without light. I only hoped the love I gave him had stayed with him somehow.
Twelve years later, he stood at my door at eighteen. My heart leapt—until he handed me a small, worn envelope with my name written in his childhood handwriting. My hands shook as I held it.
Inside was a letter he’d written at twelve. He said he never chose to leave, that he missed me every day, and that he hoped one day he could come back on his own terms. The words blurred through my tears.
Then he looked at me and said, “I’m eighteen now. I get to choose who’s in my life. And I choose you.”
We spent the afternoon talking—about school, memories, Saturday pancakes. When he hugged me goodbye, it felt like something broken had finally been repaired.
Sometimes life pulls people apart.
But love always knows the way back home.
