One week later, CPS gets involved—but not because I called. It turns out Lily confided in a school counselor before she left, and they filed a report. There’s a home visit. Interviews.
Daniel steps up. He tells the truth.
So does Lily.
Their mother? She loses custody—temporarily, they say. Until she gets therapy. Parenting classes. She rages, calls me names, blames everyone else. But I don’t care anymore. I’ve spent too long grieving someone who never saw me as family.
Now I’m focused on the kids.
Weeks pass. Then months.
Zach and Lily move in with me permanently. Daniel files for custody. He splits his time between my house and a rented apartment nearby, trying to build a stable home again.
One evening, as we sit on the porch swing, Zach turns to me.
“You know,” he says, “when Mom said you weren’t our real grandma, I wanted to yell at her.”
“Why didn’t you?”
I blink back tears. “What did you think I knew?”
“That you were our grandma. No matter what.”
I smile through the ache in my chest. “Thank you, sweetheart.”
We sit in silence, watching the sunset paint the sky orange and gold.
Inside the house, Lily’s baking something—badly. The fire alarm will go off any minute. Daniel is helping her, pretending not to notice she added salt instead of sugar.
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