I made my daughter leave home when she got pregnant at seventeen. I’d been a single mom myself, barely eighteen when she was born, and I spent years telling myself that her arrival had trapped me, limited me, stolen what little youth I had left. Instead of healing those thoughts, I carried them like stones in my pockets, heavy and bitter.
So when she came to me with trembling hands and whispered, “Mom… I’m pregnant,” something inside me snapped. I didn’t see my daughter—I saw my own mistakes staring back at me.
“I wasted my youth raising you,” I said coldly. “I won’t make the same mistake again.”
Her face crumpled, but she didn’t fight.
“If you’re keeping that baby,” I said, “you can’t stay under my roof.”
She nodded, picked up her backpack, and walked out the door with tears streaming down her cheeks. I waited for her to come back. She didn’t. I tried calling, but she changed her number. One of her friends finally told me she’d left the country.
For years, silence filled every corner of my home. I convinced myself she hated me—maybe deservedly. And yet, every birthday, every holiday, I prayed she was safe.
Sixteen years passed.
Then one quiet afternoon, there was a knock on my door. When I opened it, a tall, confident teenager stood there, holding an envelope.
“Are you… my grandmother?” he asked.
My breath caught.
“I’m your grandson,” he said gently. “This is for you.”
Inside was a wedding invitation—with my daughter’s name printed in elegant script. My hands shook.
“She found a good man,” he said proudly. “They’re getting married. I told her you had to be invited.”
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