I was only ten when my mother decided I didn’t belong. After marrying Charlie and having their “perfect” son Jason, she handed me over to Grandma like I was an inconvenience. “I have a real family now,” she said, without a flicker of guilt. Grandma Brooke became my everything — my safe place, my real parent. She tucked me in at night, loved me fiercely, and promised never to leave me. And she didn’t… until the day I buried her at 32.

At the funeral, my mother stood under an umbrella with her picture-perfect family. She didn’t shed a real tear, didn’t speak to me, just like 22 years ago. A few days later, she knocked on my door — desperate. Jason had found out about me from a message Grandma sent before she died. He was furious with her for hiding the truth. “Please,” she begged, “help me fix this.” I told her the truth: she erased me from her life, and now she was paying the price. I gave Jason my number — not for her, but for him.

When Jason and I met, he apologized even though he didn’t need to. He’d never known I existed. We bonded over memories Grandma preserved for him — stories, photos, letters. Slowly, we became the siblings we were meant to be. Mom kept calling. Kept begging. But I never answered. She made her choice. And I made mine.

On Grandma’s birthday, Jason and I visited her grave. Across the cemetery, our mother stood watching us — alone. We left her there, just as she once left me. Because family isn’t who gives birth to you. It’s who stays, chooses you, and loves you no matter what. Grandma did that. And in the end, she gave me one last gift — my brother.