I told myself I was being patient. Respectful. The kind of mother-in-law everyone quietly praises. My son kept assuring me—Rowan and the baby just needed time. “Soon, Mom,” he said week after week. “Just a little longer.”
But “soon” stretched into eight weeks. And what was meant to be patience turned into anxiety, a hollow ache in my chest. I was watching my grandson grow through photos and short videos, memorizing his face instead of feeling him in my arms. Rowan never sounded angry, just overwhelmed. Every call ended the same: “He’s still sensitive. Maybe next week.”
Eventually, “next week” became a wall I couldn’t climb. Two months without meeting your own grandchild feels unnatural—it feels wrong. One sleepless Saturday morning, after replaying excuses in my head, I packed a bag with baby clothes and told myself: I’m going to see this child, no matter what.
Driving up, my heart pounded like I was walking into a storm. The house looked closed off—curtains drawn, silence pressing in. When the door finally opened, Rowan stood there, red-eyed, hair in a stubborn bun, exhausted but strangely relieved.
“I wasn’t expecting you,” she whispered.
“I know,” I said gently. “I brought a few things for the baby. I’d really love to see him—even for a moment.”
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