For years, my son Peter and his wife Betty always had an excuse when I asked to visit—the house was a mess, they were busy, or little Mia wasn’t feeling well. I tried not to take it personally, but the constant rejections stung. Then one day, I decided to surprise them with an unannounced visit, bringing a small puzzle for my granddaughter.
The moment I walked in, I could sense the tension. Peter and Betty exchanged nervous glances, their smiles strained as they welcomed me inside. Something felt wrong, but I couldn’t put my finger on it. I brushed it off, assuming they were just caught off guard.
Days later, while babysitting Mia, she handed me a colorful drawing of her house. “Look, Grandma!” she said proudly. My heart stopped when I noticed an extra figure in the corner—a man standing alone in a basement room.
“That’s Grandpa Jack,” Mia explained casually. “He lives downstairs.”
Grandpa Jack. My ex-husband. The man who had abandoned us decades ago without a word. My hands trembled as I stared at the crayon sketch. All those years of excuses suddenly made sense.
