At 32, I stood at my grandmother’s grave, grieving the only person who ever truly loved me. Across the cemetery, my mother, Pamela, barely acknowledged me. She had abandoned me at ten, choosing her new husband and son, Jason, over me.

I was raised by Grandma Brooke, who gave me the love my mother denied me. Still, the wound of rejection never healed. I once made my mother a card, hoping she’d love me, but she handed it to Jason without a second glance. That was the moment I stopped trying.

Years passed. Grandma was my home, my family. But time took her, too. After her funeral, my mother knocked on my door—desperate. Jason had just learned about me through a message Grandma left him. He was furious at our mother for erasing me from his life.

She begged me to convince him she wasn’t a monster. I refused. Jason and I met instead. He was kind, nothing like her. We bonded over what we had lost—me, a mother’s love; him, the truth. He saw our mother’s selfishness for what it was.

She kept calling, showing up. But I had made my choice. I had my brother, a connection built on truth, not obligation.

On what would’ve been Grandma’s birthday, we stood at her grave. “She would have loved you,” I told Jason. “Not because you were perfect, but because you were you.”

Finally, I wasn’t alone.