My name is Margaret, and life didn’t unfold as I imagined. I wasn’t born strong—I became strong. Most of my life was quiet: I was a school librarian, baked blueberry muffins every Friday, and knitted blankets for every new baby at church. Then my husband died of cancer at forty-two, and my only child, Anna, became the center of my world.
Anna had her father’s smile and my stubborn streak. By her late twenties, she had a career in marketing, a small home, and a little boy named Ethan with wide brown eyes and curly hair. He was the joy of my life.
Then came the call I’ll never forget. Anna’s plane crashed. There were no survivors. One moment we laughed on the phone, the next she was gone.
Ethan was three, too young to understand death. He clung to me, and I knew my life’s mission had changed: I would raise him.
Just weeks later, his father, Mark, showed up at Anna’s door with Ethan’s suitcase. “I can’t do this, Margaret. You take him,” he said, turning and leaving without a hug or a word.
I held Ethan close. “It’s you and me now, baby,” I whispered. And it was.
We stayed in Anna’s home, keeping her memory alive. I worked cleaning shifts and at a bakery. Some days I came home exhausted, but Ethan’s laughter made it worthwhile. By six, he stopped asking about his father entirely. Years passed, and Ethan became my shadow, helping around the house and reminding me, “Grandma, you’ve done enough. Let me help.”
