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Jordan told me she missed having a grandmother. She said the woman seemed lonely, regretful, and genuinely sorry for her past. She didn’t want to hurt us, but she also didn’t want to deny someone who appeared to be seeking redemption. Hearing this, I felt a surge of anger—at the deception, at the manipulation, at the situation my daughter had been placed in. But layered beneath that anger was deep compassion. My child had been asked to carry secrets far heavier than any 13-year-old should bear.
When my husband came home, we talked late into the night. After processing the shock and hurt, we made a decision together: we would meet his mother, face to face, as a family. When we arrived at her apartment, it was modest and quiet. The woman who opened the door looked older and more fragile than either of us remembered. She didn’t deny her mistakes. She acknowledged that she had handled the past badly and admitted she was wrong to involve Jordan in secrecy. She spoke openly about her declining health and her fear of reaching the end of her life without making peace.
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