I raised my grandson after his dad left him behind, and for twenty-two years, we kept making our own world. I figured…
I raised my grandson after his dad left him behind, and for twenty-two years, we kept making our own world. I figured the old hurts were gone for good, until the day his dad showed up with a sneaky idea that knocked us flat.
My name’s Amabel, and I never dreamed my life would end up like this. I wasn’t the kind folks called tough back then. Most days, I stacked books in the school library, the steady type who liked things simple and the same.
Around our small town, people knew me for baking blueberry muffins on Fridays and crocheting baby blankets for every new little one at church. When cancer took my husband at 42, my one child, Calista, turned into the light that got me out of bed every morning. Calista was my whole world.
She had her dad’s warm smile and my hard-headed spark. At 27, she had her marketing job, a comfy house just a short walk away, and a tiny boy with fluffy curls and big brown eyes. Leif.
My grandson. She’d joke, “Mom, you worry too much. Leif’s going to turn out great.”
But nothing gets you ready for how fast life can knock you down.
I was 53 when the call came about the plane crash. It was a wet afternoon flight, some kind of engine trouble, and no one made it out alive. One second, Calista was laughing on the phone about something Leif said at preschool, and the next she was gone.
I remember dropping to the kitchen floor, the mug in my hand breaking as it hit the tiles. I didn’t even notice the glass cutting my hand. I just kept saying her name over and over, like it could somehow fix everything.
Leif was only three. He didn’t get what death meant, but he knew things felt different. He stuck to me like glue, his little fingers twisted in my sweater, his face wet and red from confusion.
Each night, I’d hold him close and share stories about his mom, making sure he knew how much she loved him. I thought we’d get better together, step by step. But I had no idea another hurt was coming, one I couldn’t have pictured.
It was just a few weeks after Calista’s funeral, and I was still crashing at her house, trying to keep things normal for Leif. His toys sat in their basket right where she’d left them, and the soft smell of her lavender soap hung in the bathroom. Then, one Saturday morning, someone knocked on the door.
I opened it to see Orson, my son-in-law, standing on the porch with Leif’s small suitcase at his feet. He looked skinny and fidgety, his eyes skipping over my shoulder like looking straight at me hurt too much. He didn’t ask to come inside.
“I can’t handle this, Amabel,” he said. His voice sounded flat, like he’d practiced it. “I’m still young.
I want to live my way. You take Leif. You’ll figure it out.”
I stared at him, my mouth dry.
“Orson… he’s three.”
He just shrugged, no sign of feeling bad. “I’ve met someone new. I’m leaving.
This isn’t what I want.”
My hand gripped the doorframe hard. “Are you for real? You’re his dad.”
He didn’t say a word.
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