The note was on the counter the next morning—one line, in her handwriting.
Mom, I can’t do this. Don’t try to find me.
I called her phone until my thumb hurt.
Then I called again.
I filed a missing person report.
The police said she was an adult.
They said adults can leave.
They said there was nothing they could do without proof of danger.
Every calm shrug felt like another door shutting in my face.
I called the baby’s father next.
Bea dated him briefly. I barely knew him.
When he finally answered, his voice was cold.
“I told Bea from the start I wasn’t ready,” he said.
“You have a daughter,” I begged. “She needs you.”
“You’re the grandmother,” he replied. “Handle it.”
Then he hung up.
When I tried again, I was blocked.
So I did handle it.
I named my granddaughter Bambi.
And I started learning a new life at an age when I thought I’d already survived enough.
Read more on the next page ⬇️⬇️⬇️
