Years later, when my daughter was twenty, I was talking with a friend about those difficult days. I explained how hard it was that my mom had never been able to meet my son. Saying the words out loud still carried a sting, even after all those years. But then my daughter, who had been listening quietly, spoke up. “That’s not true,” she said softly. Confused, I asked what she meant. With calm certainty, she continued, “Grandma did meet him. I remember her standing by his crib, smiling at him.
