Reading her words broke something inside me. All the anger, the resentment — it turned to sorrow and regret. I realized she hadn’t turned her back on me; she’d been protecting me the only way she knew how.
Now, when I wrap my kids in those little blankets she made, I tell them about their grandmother — how strong she was, how much she loved them, and how love sometimes hides behind silence. And every night, I whisper, “I’m sorry, Mom. I understand now.”