Two hours later, I looked again. Four more missed calls. One text: Mom, I think they’re here. Please come. My stomach dropped. I called her. She picked up mid-sob. “Mom, they won’t let me in.”
My voice came out sharp. “Who won’t?”
“Grandma. Aunt Brittany. They came to the door. Grandma said we don’t live here anymore.”
I froze. “She told me to stop knocking. She said I’m being dramatic.”
Something heavy and dark crawled through my chest. “Hannah, listen to me. Are you safe?”
“I’m under the porch light. It’s still raining.”
“Okay. Stay right there. Don’t move. I’m leaving now.”
I didn’t ask for permission. I tracked down my supervisor and said, “My daughter’s locked out. It’s a family emergency.” He started to argue, but one look at my face made him fall silent. Five minutes later, I was in my car, scrubs still damp from sanitizer, rain streaking furiously across the windshield. I wasn’t a nurse anymore—I was just a mother, gripping the wheel, trembling as I drove through the storm.By the time I pulled into the driveway, darkness was settling in. Hannah was huddled on the porch, knees drawn up, hair drenched. I ran to her and scooped her into my arms. She was freezing. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, as if she’d done something wrong.
“You have nothing to be sorry for,” I said, my throat raw.
Then the porch light flicked on. The door opened. My mother stood there, wine glass in hand. “Elena,” she said, surprised. “What are you doing here?”
I stared at her. “You changed the locks.”
She sighed. “We needed privacy.”
“You locked my daughter out in the rain.”
“She’s fine. She’s 11.” Mom tilted her head with that patronizing look. “We’ve decided you and Hannah don’t live here anymore. It’s better this way. Less tension.”
“Who’s ‘we’?”
“Brittany and I, of course.” Behind her, my half-sister Brittany leaned on the doorway, phone in hand, fake concern painted on her face.
“Mom, maybe this isn’t the best time,” Brittany offered weakly.
“Oh, stop,” Mom snapped. “It’s been coming for a while. Elena, you are an adult. You’ll manage.”
I looked past them. Brittany’s kids were sprawled on the couch, watching TV. My daughter’s blanket, the one with the daisies she sewed on herself, was folded neatly beside them. Something inside me went very still. I didn’t yell. I didn’t cry. I just looked at my mother and said, “Understood.”
She blinked. “What?”
“You heard me.” I turned, took Hannah’s hand, and walked back to the car. We drove without speaking. After a while, Hannah whispered, “Are we going to be okay?”
“Of course we are.”
“Grandma doesn’t like me, does she?” The question hit harder than I expected.
I forced a smile. “Grandma doesn’t like anyone, sweetheart. Don’t take it personally.” She almost smiled.
The silence in the car that night was heavier than the rain. I wish I could say I was shocked, but when someone’s been teaching you who they are for decades, you don’t get to be surprised. You just finally start believing them.
For Complete Cooking STEPS Please Head On Over To Next Page Or Open button (>) and don’t forget to SHARE with your Facebook friends.
