Chapter 3: The Gift That Wasn’t Mine

While sweeping, I spotted a slip of paper on the floor under the nightstand.

It was half-hidden, folded in a way that caught the sunlight. I knelt down, my knees creaking, and fished it out, curiosity getting the better of me.

Looking closer, I saw it was a receipt—from Oakridge Jewelers, for a 24-karat gold bracelet!

My eyes widened as I read the details—24-karat gold, the kind of thing you only buy for someone special. My heart skipped a beat when I saw the price. I glanced at the signature—my son’s name, clear as day.

The date was last week.

I traced the date with my finger, thinking back—had he mentioned anything about a gift? My mind raced with possibilities.

Thinking about Mother’s Day tomorrow, could this be a surprise for me?

A tiny spark of hope flickered. Maybe the bracelet was for me, a real gift after all these years. My heart thumped with anticipation, almost afraid to believe it.

But I quickly dismissed the idea—maybe it was for my daughter-in-law.

Reality crept in. Emily was pregnant, after all, and my son always went out of his way for her. Maybe it was just a gift for his wife, not his mother. I tried not to let the disappointment show.

I figured if they lost the receipt, it’d be a hassle to return or exchange it later, so I just put it on top of the nightstand.

I set the slip carefully on the nightstand, smoothing it out so it would be easy to find. No need for drama. I just wanted to help.

By the time I finished everything, it was almost time for my grandson, Mason, to get out of school.

I checked the clock, wiped my hands on my jeans, and grabbed my jacket. The afternoon sun was slanting low, shadows stretching across the sidewalk as I hurried out the door.

He’s in third grade now, and his school is just two streets away from our apartment complex.

It’s a short walk, one I’ve made a thousand times. I watched the other parents gather, chatting about homework and soccer practice, the air buzzing with end-of-day energy.

Today, when he came out, he was holding two handmade paper flowers—one red, one yellow.

He clutched them tightly, the petals a little crumpled, but his face was proud. He’d clearly worked hard on them. I couldn’t help but smile.

I smiled and asked, “Mason, did your teacher teach you to make those? Are they gifts for your mom for Mother’s Day?”

I knelt down, meeting his eyes, my voice gentle. I wanted to share in his excitement, to feel included in his little world.

“Yeah, the red one’s for my mom!”

He beamed, holding up the red flower for me to see, his chest puffed out with pride. "I made it myself!"

I asked again, “And the yellow one?”

He glanced at me. “Duh, it’s for my other grandma. She celebrates Mother’s Day too!”

His words were blunt, matter-of-fact. There was no malice, just a simple truth. Still, I felt a pang in my chest, the kind that comes from knowing your place in someone else’s story.

I’ve always known Mason likes his other grandma better.

You can’t change that—not with cookies, not with bedtime stories. Some bonds are just different, deeper. I’d come to accept that, even if it still hurt sometimes.

After all, I’m not his biological grandmother.

I reminded myself of that often, trying to let it soften the sting. Love isn’t always enough to bridge the gap between blood and circumstance.

When my son married Emily, she’d already been married once, and Mason was her son from her previous marriage.

I remembered the first time I met Mason, his big brown eyes watching me warily from behind Emily’s legs. He was just a toddler, still trying to figure out where he fit in this new family.

At first, I didn’t approve, but my son was so set on her, I finally gave in.

I argued, worried about how complicated things would get. But my son was stubborn, his mind made up. What could I do? He was my only son. Eventually, I relented, hoping for the best.

The day after the wedding, my son came to me with a request.

He sat me down at the kitchen table, hands folded, voice serious in a way I wasn’t used to. “Mom, I need your help.”

“Mom, can you help Emily take care of Mason? She’s at a key point in her career—if she becomes a stay-at-home mom, it’ll be hard for her to get back into the workforce later.”

He looked at me with pleading eyes, the weight of responsibility heavy on his shoulders. I saw how much he wanted this to work, how much he needed my support.

Since I was already retired and wanted to ease my son’s burden, I agreed.

I told myself it was just for a little while, that I could handle it. I wanted to help, to give my son and his new family a chance to find their footing.

That ‘help’ turned into two years. Just when I thought Mason was about to start elementary school and I could step back, my daughter-in-law disagreed.

The years slipped by, one school project, one scraped knee at a time. I kept waiting for the day I could reclaim my time, but it never seemed to come.

She said she and my son got off work too late and had no one to pick him up, and asked me to keep helping until he finished elementary school.

Emily’s voice was always polite, but firm. “We just can’t make it work without you, Linda. It’s only until he’s older, I promise.”

My son also begged me to hang in there a few more years.

He’d call me after work, promising it was just temporary, that he’d make it up to me. I wanted to believe him.

But as my grandson got older, I found he respected me less and less.

He started slamming doors, rolling his eyes, muttering under his breath. The sweet little boy I’d rocked to sleep was slipping away, replaced by someone prickly and distant. I barely recognized him anymore.

Every day, he’d look at me with that attitude—nose in the air, eyes rolling!

It was like living with a tiny teenager, all sass and no gratitude. I tried to brush it off, but it wore me down, little by little.

He used to be such a sweet, clingy little boy at three or four, but now he’s a different person.

I missed the days when he’d crawl into my lap, sticky hands and all, just for a hug. Now, he barely looked at me, unless he needed something.

At first, I tried to discipline him and reason with him, but he’d run to my daughter-in-law and complain I was picking on him.

Every attempt at correction ended in tears and accusations. He’d go straight to Emily, who’d shoot me a look that said I’d overstepped.

She confronted me: “Linda, I know Mason isn’t your real grandson, but even if you don’t like him, you can’t hit or scold him behind our backs, right?”

Her words were sharp, her tone icy. I felt like a stranger in my own home, my authority stripped away. Just like that, I was an outsider.

“And anyway, I’m his real mom—no matter what, it’s not your place to discipline him!”

She made it clear: boundaries were boundaries. I was there to help, not to parent. The message stung, but I nodded, swallowing my pride.

I was speechless.

I stood there, mouth opening and closing, no words coming out. I wanted to defend myself, to explain, but I knew it wouldn’t matter.

After that, I never tried to manage my grandson again.

I kept my distance, doing only what was asked of me. I became the silent chauffeur, the invisible cook, the quiet presence in the background.

Every day, I just took him to and from school. Aside from daily routines, I never got involved in his upbringing.

I learned to keep my thoughts to myself, biting back advice and corrections. It was easier that way—for everyone.

Seven years of caring for my grandson—maybe not some grand achievement, but definitely a lot of work. He thought to give flowers to his mom and his other grandma, but not a single thought for me.

I counted the years in school drop-offs, packed lunches, and bedtime stories. But when it came time for thanks, I was nowhere on his list. The realization stung, sharper than I expected. It hurt more than I thought it would.

Of course it hurt.

I tried to hide it, but the ache was there, a dull throb behind every smile. I wondered if I’d done something wrong, or if I’d just never been enough.

I’ve treated him with all the care I’d give my own grandchild, but he’s always met me with a cold face.

I thought love would be enough, that kindness would earn me a place in his heart. But some walls are too high, no matter how hard you try to climb them.

Whatever. It’s not like I need a fake flower anyway.

I told myself it didn’t matter, that I was above it all. But deep down, I wished things were different. Just once. That’s all I wanted.

Tomorrow, my son will bring me real ones!

I clung to that hope, letting it carry me through the rest of the day. Maybe tomorrow, things would finally change.