I was ten when my mother decided I was a burden. She had a new family and I didn’t fit the picture. So she got rid of me and gave me away like I was nothing to raise her “perfect son.” My grandma took me in and loved me. Years later, the woman who abandoned me showed up at my door… begging.
There’s a moment when you realize some wounds never heal. For me, that moment came at 32 as I stood at my grandmother’s grave. The only person who had ever truly loved me was gone, and the woman who gave birth to me and abandoned me stood across the cemetery, not even looking in my direction.
I hadn’t seen my mother in years. Not since she decided my brother was worth raising… but I wasn’t.
A grieving woman in a cemetery | Source: Midjourney
The rain fell in sheets that day, soaking through my black dress as I watched them lower Grandma Brooke’s casket into the ground. My mother, Pamela, stood under an umbrella with her perfect family — her husband Charlie and their son Jason… my replacement and the “golden” child worthy of her love.
She didn’t cry. Not really. She just dabbed at her eyes occasionally for show.
When it was over, she turned and walked away without a word to me, just like she had 22 years ago when I was ten. I remained rooted to the spot, alone with the fresh mound of dirt that covered the only parent I’d ever really had.
“I don’t know how to do this without you, Grandma,” I whispered to the grave.
A heartbroken woman | Source: Midjourney
I was born from a brief affair and I was an inconvenience my mother never wanted. When I was ten, she married my stepfather Charlie and gave birth to their “perfect son” Jason. Suddenly, I became nothing more than a reminder of her past mistake.
I still remember the day she told me I wouldn’t be living with them anymore.
“Rebecca, come here,” she called from the kitchen table where she sat with Grandma Brooke.
I walked in, hope blooming in my chest.
A frustrated woman | Source: Midjourney
“Yes, Mom?” I asked. She rarely spoke directly to me anymore.
Her eyes were cold and distant. “You’re going to live with Grandma now.”
The words didn’t make sense at first. “Like… for the weekend?”
“No,” she said, not meeting my eyes. “Permanently. Grandma’s going to take care of you from now on.”
I looked at Grandma, whose face was tight with anger and grief.
“But why? Did I do something wrong?”
A sad little girl looking at someone | Source: Midjourney
“Don’t make this harder than it has to be,” my mother snapped. “I have a real family now. You’re just… in the way.”
Grandma’s hand slammed the table. “Enough, Pamela! She’s a child, for God’s sake. Your child.”
My mother shrugged. “A mistake I’ve paid for long enough. Either you take her, or I’ll find someone who will.”
I stood there, tears streaming down my face, invisible to the woman who gave birth to me.
“Pack your things, sweetheart,” Grandma said gently, wrapping her arms around me. “We’ll make this work, I promise.”
An annoyed older woman | Source: Midjourney
Grandma’s house became my sanctuary. A place where I was wanted and where someone’s eyes lit up when I walked into the room. She hung my artwork on the fridge, helped with my homework, and tucked me in every night.
Still, the wound of my mother’s rejection festered.
“Why doesn’t she want me?” I asked one night as Grandma brushed my hair before bed.
Her hands paused. “Oh, Becca. Some people aren’t capable of the love they should give. It’s not your fault, honey. Never think it’s your fault.”
An upset girl | Source: Midjourney
“But she loves Jason.”
Grandma resumed brushing, each stroke gentle and soothing. “Your mother is broken in ways I couldn’t fix. I tried, God knows I tried. But she’s always run from her mistakes instead of facing them.”
“So I’m a mistake?”
“No, honey. You are a gift. The best thing that ever happened to me. Your mother just can’t see past her own selfishness to recognize what she’s throwing away.”
An older woman with a kind smile | Source: Midjourney
I leaned into her embrace, breathing in the scent of lavender that clung to her clothes.
“Will you ever leave me too, Grandma?” I whispered.
“Never,” she said fiercely. “As long as there’s breath in my body, you will always have a home with me.”
“Promise?”
“I promise.”
A disheartened girl looking up at someone with hope | Source: Midjourney
When I was 11, Grandma insisted we visit for a “family dinner.” She thought it was important to maintain some connection, however tenuous. Deep down, I hoped my mother realized what she’d thrown away and welcome me back with open arms.
Walking in, I saw her doting over my brother, laughing and proud… like she had never abandoned me. One-year-old Jason sat in a high chair, mashed potatoes smeared across his chubby face. My mother wiped it away with such tenderness it made my chest ache.
She barely glanced at me.
“Hey, Mom,” I said, forcing a smile.
She frowned. “Oh! You’re here.”
A woman frowning | Source: Midjourney
My chest tightened, but I swallowed the hurt and reached into my pocket. I pulled out a small, slightly crumpled handmade card. I had spent hours on it, carefully folding the paper, writing “I Love You, Mom” in my neatest handwriting on the front.
Inside, I had drawn a picture of our family — me, my mother, my stepfather, my baby brother, and my grandmother. I had colored it with the few markers I had, making sure to give everyone a smile. Because that’s how I wanted us to be… a real, happy family.
With hopeful eyes, I extended it toward her. “I made this for you.”
A desperate little girl holding a sheet of paper | Source: Midjourney
She barely glanced at it before passing it to my brother. “Here, honey. Something for you.”
I froze. That gift wasn’t for him. It was from me to my mother.
“I-I got that for you.”
She waved a hand dismissively. “Oh, what would I need it for? I have everything I want.”
Everything. Except me.
A shattered girl | Source: Midjourney
Years of neglect hung between us. My grandmother shot me a sympathetic glance, but I forced a smile. I wouldn’t let them see me break.
“Dinner’s ready,” Charlie called from the dining room, oblivious to the moment or choosing to ignore it.
“Come on,” my mother said, lifting Jason from his high chair. “The roast will get cold.”
That was the last time I ever wanted to see my mother. After that night, I stopped trying. And she didn’t seem to care. Not long after, she moved to another city and only called my grandmother occasionally. But she never called me.
Shot of an airplane passing above high-rise buildings | Source: Unsplash
Years passed. I grew up, became a successful woman, and built a life of my own. I went to college on scholarships, got a job in marketing, and bought a small house near Grandma’s cottage. I dated, sometimes seriously, but relationships were hard. Trust didn’t come easily when my own mother couldn’t love me.
Grandma was my rock through everything. She never missed a graduation, a birthday, or a milestone. She hung my college diploma next to her achievements. She made sure I knew I belonged.
But time is relentless. My grandmother, my true parent, grew older too. Her hands became gnarled with arthritis, her steps slower, and her memory was sometimes foggy.
An older woman walking in a park | Source: Pexels
“Remember when you tried to teach me to bake cookies and we set off the smoke alarm?” I asked one afternoon as we walked in her beloved garden.
She laughed, the sound still musical despite her 78 years. “The neighbors thought the house was on fire. That fireman was so handsome, though… I almost didn’t mind the embarrassment.”
“You flirted with him shamelessly,” I teased.
“Life’s too short not to flirt with handsome firemen, Rebecca.” She patted my hand. “Promise me something?”
“Anything.”
“When I’m gone, don’t waste time on bitterness. Your mother made her choice, and it was the wrong one. But don’t let that choice define your life.”
Close-up shot of a young woman with her grandmother | Source: Freepik
I felt a chill despite the summer heat. “You’re not going anywhere.”
She smiled sadly. “We all go somewhere eventually, honey. Just promise me you’ll live fully. That’s all I’ve ever wanted for you.”
“I promise,” I whispered, resting my head on her shoulder like I had countless times before.
Three months later, she was gone. A stroke in her sleep. “Peaceful and a blessing, really,” the doctor said.
But it didn’t feel like a blessing to me.
A woman shaken to her core | Source: Midjourney
I was 32 when I buried her. My mother arrived with her family, but I never really saw any remorse in her eyes. She didn’t even look at me during the service.
The house felt empty without Grandma. I wandered from room to room, touching her things — the crocheted blanket on the couch, the collection of ceramic birds on the mantel, and the worn cookbook in the kitchen with her handwritten notes in the margins.
God, I missed her so much.
Just a few days after the funeral, there was a knock on my door. When I opened it, I froze.
It was my mother.
A desperate senior woman at the doorway | Source: Midjourney
She looked older, gray threading through her dark hair, and lines around her eyes and mouth that hadn’t been there before. But her eyes were the same — distant and calculating.
“Please,” she whispered, gripping her purse with white-knuckled hands. “I just need to talk to you.”
Every instinct in me screamed to shut the door and walk away. But something in her tone, something almost… defeated, made me pause.
I crossed my arms. “Talk.”
An annoyed woman with her arms crossed | Source: Midjourney
She exhaled, looking down before meeting my gaze. “Your brother knows about you.”
My breath hitched. “What do you mean?”
“Before she passed, your grandmother sent him a message. And told him everything.”
I swallowed hard.
“He was too young to remember you, Rebecca. And I… I didn’t let your grandmother talk about you to him. I told her if she did, she’d never see him again.”
My stomach churned. It was worse than I imagined. My mother not only abandoned me… she ERASED me.
A happy little boy walking on the road | Source: Pexels
She must have seen the horror on my face because she rushed to explain. “I thought I was doing the right thing! You had your grandmother, and I had my family —”
“You had a family,” I cut in. “You decided I wasn’t part of it.”
Her lip trembled. “He won’t speak to me, not since he read the message last night. His phone fell in the water and had been switched off for days… and he’s just gotten the message from Grandma after turning it on last night. He’s mad at me for hiding you from him. I need you to talk to him. Tell him I’m not a monster.”
I let out a hollow laugh. “Not a monster? You abandoned your daughter at ten, pretended she didn’t exist, and threatened your own mother just to keep your secret. What would make you a monster, then?”
A guilty woman | Source: Midjourney
Tears welled in her eyes, but they didn’t move me. I had shed enough tears for her years ago.
Still, despite everything, I hesitated. Not for her, but for my brother.
I spent my life believing he had forgotten me. But he never had the chance to know me at all. He was just a child, manipulated by a woman who only saw me as an obstacle.
“I’ll take his number,” I said flatly.
My mother exhaled in relief, but her face fell when she realized what I meant. I wasn’t calling for her. I was calling for him.
A furious yet composed woman | Source: Midjourney
“You can give him my number,” I clarified. “If he wants to talk to me, that’s his choice. And if he doesn’t want to talk to you…” I shrugged. “That’s his choice too.”
“Rebecca, please —”
“Goodbye, Mom,” I said, and slowly closed the door.
I met Jason a week later at a quiet café across town, my heart pounding as I saw him walk in. He was tall, with dark hair like our mother’s, but his eyes were kind.
An upset man in a coffee shop | Source: Midjourney
He looked nervous but when he spotted me, something in his expression softened.
“I’m so sorry,” were the first words out of his mouth.
I stared at him. “You don’t have to apologize. You didn’t do anything wrong.”
“But I…” he swallowed hard. “I didn’t know. She never told me. I only found out because of Grandma’s message. I can’t believe she did that to you.”
I studied his face, searching for any sign of dishonesty. But there was none. He was just a kid when it happened. He hadn’t chosen this.
A smiling woman looking at someone | Source: Midjourney
“You’re nothing like her, Jason.”
His shoulders sagged in relief. “I’ve been so angry since I found out. It’s like… everything I thought I knew about Mom was a lie.”
“How did you find out exactly?”
Jason ran a hand through his hair. “I got this email from Grandma. It had pictures of you, stories about you… things Mom never told me. And a letter explaining everything.”
“She was always clever,” I said, a sad smile tugging at my lips. “Even from beyond the grave, she was looking out for us.”
A man lost in deep thought | Source: Midjourney
“She wrote that she promised not to tell me while she was alive because she was afraid Mom would cut me off from her completely.” He shook his head. “I can’t imagine being forced to make that choice. It’s so cruel.”
“That’s who Mom is,” I said. “She makes everything a transaction.”
He nodded, then pulled out his phone. “I have the pictures Grandma sent, if you want to see them?”
We spent the next hour looking at photos of a life intersected but separate. Grandma had documented everything for him, creating a bridge across the chasm our mother had dug between us.
A smiling man looking at his phone | Source: Midjourney
“I always wanted a sibling,” Jason said quietly. “I used to beg for a brother or sister. Mom always said she couldn’t have more children after me. Another lie.”
“You know,” I said, pushing my empty coffee cup aside, “we can’t change the past. But we can decide what happens next.”
He nodded, a tentative smile crossing his face. “I’d like to know my sister, if that’s okay with you.”
For the first time in over two decades, I let myself feel something I never thought I’d have again — a connection to family that wasn’t built on obligation or pity.
“I’d like that,” I said. “I’d like that very much.”
A cheerful woman | Source: Midjourney
Over the next few weeks, we talked more. I told him about my life, about how Grandma raised me, and how I spent years wondering if he ever thought of me.
And he told me about our mother. About how she had always been controlling, suffocating, and never allowed him to make his own choices.
We met at a park on a crisp autumn day, walking along paths covered in fallen leaves.
“Mom’s been calling me nonstop,” he said. “Showing up at my apartment. She even contacted my work.”
“That sounds like her. When she wants something, she doesn’t stop.”
People walking in a park | Source: Pexels
“She always acted like the perfect mom, Rebecca. I thought she was just overprotective, but now I realize… she’s just selfish. Everything has always been about her image, her comfort, and her needs.”
“Has she always been like that with you?”
He kicked at a pile of leaves. “Yeah, I guess so. I just didn’t see it clearly until now. Nothing I did was ever quite good enough unless it made her look good too.”
We both knew, at that moment, that neither of us owed her anything.
Portrait of a smiling man | Source: Midjourney
Weeks passed. I built a relationship with my brother, the one thing Mom had tried to keep from me. And she kept calling, sent messages, and even showed up at my door again.
But this time, when she knocked, I didn’t answer. She had made her choice 22 years ago. And now, I had made mine.
On what would have been Grandma’s birthday, Jason and I met at her grave. We placed her favorite yellow daisies and stood in silence.
“I wish I’d known her better,” Jason said. “Really known her.”
“She would have loved you,” I told him. “Not because you’re perfect, but because you’re you.”
A bouquet of yellow daisies on a gravestone | Source: Midjourney
As we walked back to our cars, something caught my eye across the cemetery. A familiar figure stood watching us.
Our mother.
Jason saw her too and tensed beside me.
“We don’t have to talk to her,” I said.
He shook his head. “No, we don’t.”
We got into our cars and drove away, leaving her standing alone among the gravestones.
A sad woman in a cemetery | Source: Midjourney
In the end, family isn’t always who gives birth to you. Sometimes it’s who sees you and chooses to stay. Grandma chose me. And in her final act of love, she gave me back the brother I never knew.
Some wounds never heal completely. But around the scars, new life can still grow.
People holding hands | Source: Pexels
My MIL Was Stealing My Clothes for Months and Advertising It Online — On Thanksgiving, I Publicly Taught Her a Lesson
When her favorite clothes start vanishing, Stephanie dismisses it as forgetfulness — until she discovers her mother-in-law secretly selling them online, calling them “trashy.” Living together during renovations just got interesting, and the family will never forget this Thanksgiving dinner.
I thought I had a good relationship with Lucia, my mother-in-law, until she moved in with us while her home was being renovated.
A woman standing beside several suitcases | Source: Midjourney
It started with small things, minor disagreements about why I put rosemary in my pot roast, and the “proper” way to clean the hardwood floors.
I tried to be a good host, but Lucia did not make it easy. One day, I returned from my part-time job to discover she’d rearranged everything stored in the kitchen cupboards. She also insisted on hanging the laundry outside to dry, even though I asked her not to.
“The fresh air just makes it smell better,” she said.
Laundry hanging on a clothesline | Source: Pexels
“That’s what the scented fabric softener is for,” I replied, but she just wouldn’t listen.
“You’re both very headstrong and like to do things your way, it’s natural you’ll clash from time to time,” Michael said when I ranted to him over a date night dinner. “And besides, Mom will be going back to her place in another few weeks. It’s not that long.”
“It may as well be forever,” I sighed.
Then my clothes started disappearing.
A confused woman standing in front of a closet | Source: Midjourney
It started with a semi-sheer dress. I wanted to wear it to a work function but when I opened my closet, it was gone.
“Lucia, have you seen my dress?” I called as I headed to the basement to search the laundry. “The mauve one, with the ruffles?”
“The one that looks like a curtain?” Lucia popped her head out of the living room as I passed by. “No, Steph, I don’t think I have.”
A woman shrugging | Source: Midjourney
I never did find that dress and the missing clothes situation got worse. My skinny jeans vanished next, followed by my fuschia pink sundress and — this one really got me — my favorite silk blouse that Michael had bought me for our anniversary.
I was going half-crazy thinking I’d misplaced them. I unpacked my entire closet and reorganized it three times. Every time, I noticed something else that was missing like a favorite bra, my lace pantyhose, and a grey pencil skirt.
But the real kicker? I discovered the truth about what was happening to my clothes purely by accident.
Close up of a frowning woman’s face | Source: Midjourney
I couldn’t sleep one night and ended up scrolling through Reddit. There, I stumbled upon a post showing MY CLOTHES, with a caption that made my blood boil: “Cleaning out my DIL’s trashy wardrobe. Anyone want to buy some clothes that no respectable married woman should wear?”
I nearly choked on my chamomile tea. The username might as well have been “LuciaTheThief” because who else could it be?
The woman who’d been living in my house for three months, eating my food, and criticizing my cooking, was now apparently stealing my clothes.
A woman staring at her phone screen in shock | Source: Midjourney
“Oh my God,” I whispered to myself, scrolling through the comments.
Some people wanted to buy the clothes while others had posted nasty criticisms of my fashion sense. She’d replied to some with remarks like, “My poor son doesn’t know how to tell her these clothes are inappropriate” and “She dresses like she’s still in college.”
I clenched my fists so hard that one of my acrylic nails popped off. I was tempted to storm into the guest bedroom right then and demand my clothes back, but then I came up with a better plan.
A woman scowling at her phone | Source: Midjourney
Thanksgiving was right around the corner and this year, Michael and I were celebrating with members from both our families. Twelve people in total, including Michael’s older brother and one of his aunts.
“Revenge is a dish best served with turkey and cranberry sauce,” I muttered as I took screenshots of Lucia’s Reddit post.
I set my phone aside and fell asleep with a smile on my face.
A cell phone on a nightstand | Source: Pexels
On Thanksgiving, I graciously told Lucia to go ahead and prepare the meal according to her family recipes. It kept her busy while I hurriedly completed the final steps of my plan to teach her a lesson.
Afterward, I set the table according to Lucia’s specifications. It looked perfect by the time everyone arrived. Michael squeezed my hand under the table as everyone sat down, probably thinking I was finally making an effort with his mother.
If he only knew.
A woman standing at a dining table | Source: Midjourney
When everyone had filled their plates, I stood up, wine glass in hand. “I’d like to make a toast,” I announced.
“To family,” I began, “and especially to Lucia, who’s been such a… presence in our home these past few months.” A few chuckles around the table. “She’s taught me so much about generosity and giving to others.”
Lucia beamed, probably thinking I’d finally learned something from her endless lessons about charity and community service. That’s when I reached under the table and pulled out the garbage bag I’d stashed there earlier.
A woman lifting a trash bag | Source: Midjourney
“In fact, she’s generously donated all of these clothes to the women’s shelter downtown,” I continued, “accidentally” letting the bag split open.
Out tumbled Lucia’s favorite cashmere sweater, her designer jeans, and — oops — was that her La Perla lingerie skittering across the hardwood floor?
Lucia took one look at the clothes, all items I’d carefully chosen because I knew she loved them, and spat her wine out like a fountain.
A shocked woman seated at a dining table | Source: Midjourney
The table went silent. Michael’s sister Jane stopped mid-chew. Then, surprisingly, Michael’s cousin Sarah started clapping.
“That’s so wonderful of you, Aunt Lucia!” Sarah exclaimed. “You’re always talking about giving back to the community. How generous of you to donate your designer clothes!”
Others joined in the applause, praising Lucia’s apparent selflessness. I watched as her face cycled through confusion, horror, and fury, knowing she couldn’t say a word without exposing her misdeeds.
A smug woman | Source: Midjourney
It was the perfect trap.
The rest of dinner was deliciously awkward, with Lucia pushing food around her plate and avoiding everyone’s eyes.
I’d never seen her so quiet during a family gathering. Usually, she’d be holding court, sharing stories about Michael’s childhood, or dropping not-so-subtle hints about grandchildren.
After dinner, Lucia cornered me in the kitchen.
An angry woman | Source: Midjourney
Her face was flushed, either from anger or the three glasses of wine she’d needed to get through dessert.
“How dare you humiliate me like that?” she hissed, hands shaking as she gripped the counter. “You went too far, Stephanie. Way too far.”
I continued loading the dishwasher, taking my time with each plate. “How dare I? That’s rich coming from someone who stole my clothes and tried to sell them online while calling me trashy.”
A woman loading a dishwasher | Source: Midjourney
“What? I… I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
I paused, took out my phone, and showed her the screenshot I’d taken of her Reddit post. The blood drained from her face and her jaw went slack.
“I… well, those clothes were inappropriate—”
“Those clothes were mine,” I cut her off. I scrolled to the next screenshot. “Every single comment you made, every attempt to sell my things — it’s all here.”
An angry woman | Source: Midjourney
“And let me make something crystal clear: my house, my clothes, my life,” I continued. “You don’t get to make those decisions for me anymore. Actions have consequences, Lucia. Remember that next time you think about overstepping.”
The next morning, I found all my missing clothes neatly folded outside my bedroom door. Every single item was there, from the semi-sheer dress to the silk blouse.
No note needed — the message was clear.
A stack of folded clothes on a hallway table | Source: Pexels
I gathered them up and took them to my closet, then spent an hour sorting through my older clothes.
When Lucia came down for breakfast, I was already at the door with my donation bag.
“Going to the shelter?” she asked quietly.
“Yes. With my own clothes… the ones I actually want to donate.”
A woman carrying a trash bag | Source: Midjourney
She nodded, then surprised me by saying, “I’m sorry, Stephanie. I was wrong.”
I paused at the door, bag in hand. “I know you were.”
“It’s just…” she sighed, wringing her hands. “Those clothes, some of them seemed so revealing, and I worried about what people would think. About you, about Michael, about our family. But I handled it all wrong. It won’t happen again.”
“No,” I agreed, “it won’t.”
A woman holding a trash bag | Source: Midjourney
As I drove to the shelter, I couldn’t help but smile. Sometimes it takes a little public humiliation to teach someone about boundaries. And if Lucia ever tried something like this again? Well, I still had those Reddit screenshots saved on my phone.
Just in case.
But for now, we had reached a tentative peace. The following weeks brought fewer criticisms, more respect for personal space, and — miracle of miracles — not a single comment about my wardrobe choices.
A woman relaxing on a sofa | Source: Midjourney
Sometimes, it takes a dramatic gesture to reset a relationship.
Here’s another story: After weeks of planning the perfect Christmas Eve, my husband left the kids and me at home to attend his staff-only office party instead. But when another wife’s call revealed the truth about couples being invited, I decided it was time for a surprise visit.
This work is inspired by real events and people, but it has been fictionalized for creative purposes. Names, characters, and details have been changed to protect privacy and enhance the narrative. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
The author and publisher make no claims to the accuracy of events or the portrayal of characters and are not liable for any misinterpretation. This story is provided “as is,” and any opinions expressed are those of the characters and do not reflect the views of the author or publisher.
Leave a Reply