Back to the Only Place I Belonged
I drove straight to Grandma’s house. The moment she opened the door, I collapsed into her arms. “You were right,” I sobbed.
She held me close, her hand steady on my back. “It will be alright, sweetheart. You’re stronger than you know.”
The divorce was swift and cruel. Henry fought for everything—the house, the furniture, even the dishes. I let him take it all. None of it mattered anymore. I was free.
But soon after, Grandma called me into the living room. She sat with folded hands, her face pale. “The doctor says I don’t have long,” she whispered.
“No.” My heart stopped. “Please. Promise me you’ll meet your great-grandchild.”
Her hand stroked my hair. “I can’t promise what I don’t control. But I promise I’ll love him, even from where I go.”
Those final weeks were bittersweet. We cooked when she had strength, watched old movies when she was tired, and chose baby room colors together. She picked blue. “Calm and peaceful,” she said.
And then, too soon, she was gone. I was eight months pregnant, holding back tears at her funeral, when I felt my baby kick—as if reminding me to keep going.
