She Promised She Missed Me — But She Lied Again
For 20 years, I held onto the same picture in my heart — my mother’s face as she left me behind. Even as a grown woman, that memory was as clear as the day it happened. I was five years old, standing on Grandma Rose’s porch, clutching my stuffed bunny while my mother bent down in front of me.
Tears streaked her cheeks, her mascara leaving black lines down her face.
“Sweetie,” she said, her voice shaking, “Mark doesn’t want children in his new home… but I love you very much. This is just… the best thing for everyone right now.”
I didn’t understand. I just knew that Mark, the new man in her life after my dad died, never liked me. He barely looked at me, and when he did, it was like I wasn’t wanted. But I couldn’t figure out why she brought me to my grandmother’s house—Dad’s mom, not even her own.
“Mommy, please don’t go!” I screamed, running after her as she turned and walked toward her car.
She didn’t even turn around.
The car pulled away. The street was quiet. I stood on the porch, crying, with my stuffed bunny hanging from my hand.
Then I heard the screen door creak behind me.
“Oh, my word!” Grandma Rose gasped, walking out onto the porch. “She couldn’t even ring the doorbell?”
Her voice was sharp, but when she saw me shaking, her whole face softened. She dropped to her knees and hugged me tight.
“Oh, sweetheart,” she whispered, brushing the hair from my face. “Don’t you worry. You’re staying with me now. You’ll be okay.”
I didn’t say anything. I just cried into her soft cardigan as she gently picked me up and carried me inside.
That night, Grandma made me hot cocoa and read me stories in her guest room, which became my bedroom for the next fifteen years. She never once made me feel like I didn’t belong.
She made pancakes every Saturday morning and walked me to school even in the rain. She always showed up for school plays, sat in the front row, and clapped the loudest. Her house always smelled like something baking—banana bread, apple pie, or roasted chicken.
Still, no matter how much love Grandma gave me, I missed my mom.
I started drawing her in secret. I’d draw pictures of her pushing me on a swing, making cupcakes with me, braiding my hair. Always smiling. Always happy. Like how I wished things could’ve been.
I kept the drawings in a shoebox under my bed. Whenever my heart hurt too much, I’d add a new one.
“Your mom loves you in her own way,” Grandma once said gently when I asked. “But sometimes people don’t know how to show love properly.”
Years passed. Grandma’s hair turned snowy white, and I grew into a young woman. I went to college, got a job in marketing, and moved into a small but cozy apartment in the city. I visited Grandma often.
She was my everything. My safe place.
Then one Tuesday evening, the phone rang while I was working on a presentation.
It was the hospital. Grandma had suffered a massive heart attack. By the time I got there… she was gone.
I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t cry. I don’t remember the funeral. I was numb.
Her friend, Miss Elaine, handled everything. I just stood there, smiling at people I didn’t recognize, thanking them for being there. Inside, I felt empty.
For weeks afterward, I wandered through my life like a shadow. I’d pick up the phone to call her, forgetting she was gone. Every corner of my apartment reminded me she wasn’t in this world anymore.
Then, one gray rainy afternoon, someone knocked at my door.
I opened it… and froze.
It was her.
My mother. Twenty years later.
Her hair was dyed and styled. Her clothes were expensive. But her eyes were still the same warm brown as mine.
“Alexa,” she said softly. “It’s so good to see you. I… I heard about your grandma. I’m so sorry I couldn’t be there for the funeral.”
My throat tightened. I stared at her, my heart pounding. Every emotion I’d buried came rushing up like a wave.
“Can I come in?” she asked, voice trembling. “I know I don’t deserve it, but… I’d like to explain.”
My head said no. But that little girl who kept all those drawings in a shoebox whispered yes.
I stepped aside.
She sat on my couch, smoothing out her skirt. “After I left,” she began, “Mark and I were married for five years before it all fell apart. I regretted leaving you every single day, Alexa. But… I was ashamed. I didn’t know how to come back.”
I didn’t know whether to believe her. But I listened.
“I can’t undo the past,” she said, wiping tears from her eyes with a tissue. “But when I heard about Rose… it made me realize life’s too short. I miss you. I want to be your mother again. Please… give me a chance.”
I wanted to believe her so badly it hurt.
So, I did the one thing Grandma Rose would’ve warned me against—I gave her a chance.
We started meeting for lunch. She called me often, asking about my job, my friends. She seemed emotional when I showed her pictures of Grandma and me.
“I wish I could’ve said sorry to her,” she said one day, squeezing my hand. “She raised you after losing her son. She must’ve been incredible.”
I nodded. But I didn’t let my guard down.
Because something felt… wrong.
She was always on her phone, texting constantly during our meals. She asked me to smile for pictures but never shared them or even showed me. And whenever I asked about her life after Mark—where she’d lived, what she did—she’d brush it off and steer the conversation back to me.
One night, she was in my apartment for dinner. She excused herself to the bathroom. Her phone buzzed on the table.
I never meant to look. But the screen lit up.
“Can’t wait to meet your daughter…”
—From someone named Richard.
My hands shook as I picked it up. No lock screen. I opened the messages.
The first thing I saw was a photo she’d taken of us earlier that night. Underneath it, her message:
“Just me and my daughter having the best time together. I told you, I’m all about family❤️”
I felt sick. I scrolled up.
Richard had two young kids. Their mom had left. He was looking for someone who could love his kids like a mom.
And Evelyn—my mother—was pretending to be a devoted, loving mother to me. Just to impress this guy.
She didn’t come back because she missed me.
She came back to play pretend. To use me.
She picked a man over me. Again.
I didn’t say a word when she came out of the bathroom. Instead, I went to my bedroom and returned with the shoebox. My drawings. My childhood hopes.
I handed it to her silently.
She opened it and gasped. “Alexa… did you draw these?”
“Every few weeks. For years. After you left.”
She hugged me tight, crying. “Oh baby, I’m so sorry. I’ll never leave you again. We’re family. That’s what matters.”
But I didn’t hug her back. She didn’t even notice.
She stayed the night, promising to call the next day.
She never asked to keep the box.
I found it in the guest bedroom.
Forgotten.
That said enough.
When she called, I didn’t answer. When she knocked on my door days later, shouting my name—I didn’t move. I sat in silence.
Eventually, she left.
And I felt lighter.
One night, I took the shoebox and walked it out to the dumpster behind my building. I stared at it for a long time before tossing it in.
As I walked back upstairs, I remembered what Grandma Rose once told me:
“You are a strong, capable young woman, Alexa. Never forget your worth.”
She was right.
I chose myself.
Not Evelyn. Not the lies. Not the games.
Just me.
And that was enough.
