My son stopped me at the hospital door after I’d driven 15 hours straight and said the words that would cost them everything. Mom, what are you doing here? My wife said she doesn’t want you around.
Four days later, when the hospital called asking how I’d like to pay the $10,300 delivery bill, I smiled for the first time since my grandson was born. Let me tell you how we got there. Three weeks earlier, my daughter-in-law Jessica had called me practically glowing through the phone.
Mom Carol, the baby’s due any day now, and we’d love for you to be here when he arrives. You’re going to be such an amazing grandmother. I should have known something was off when she started calling me Mom Carol instead of just Carol.
After five years of marriage to my son, David, she’d never been that warm. But the excitement of becoming a grandmother for the first time clouded my judgment. At sixty-five, I’d been dreaming of this moment since David announced the pregnancy eight months ago.
I live in Phoenix. They live in Denver. Fifteen hours of desert highways and mountain passes.
I packed my best outfits, bought gifts for the baby, and even splurged on a week at a nice hotel near the hospital. This was going to be the most important week of my life. The drive itself was brutal.
My back ached from sitting so long, but every mile brought me closer to meeting my grandson. I’d stopped only for gas and coffee, calling David twice to check if there was any news. Both times, Jessica answered his phone, sweet as pie, telling me to drive safely and that they couldn’t wait to see me.
When I finally pulled into the hospital parking garage at two in the morning on Tuesday, exhausted but exhilarated, I felt like I’d conquered the world. The maternity ward receptionist told me Jessica was in labor, room 314. I practically floated down the hallway, my heart pounding with anticipation.
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