Late love

Mom always said I was Grandma's way of guilt-tripping her into giving up her perfect life. A life that, before me, consisted of her, Dad, and their beloved poodle, Coco. Mom could spend three sleepless nights nursing Coco when she was sick, but couldn't stand to be in the same room as me when I had a fever-induced seizure. When my dog allergy landed me in the hospital with respiratory failure, Mom shipped me off to Grandma's in the countryside without a second thought. She told me, "I didn't want you. I can give you life, but not love. And don't think anyone can trap me with a child again!"

I never understood why Mom didn't love me. It wasn't until years later, when she tearfully apologized, that I realized love can't be forced.

It turns out Grandma had been seriously ill, and her dying wish was to see a grandchild. This clashed directly with Mom and Dad's decision to remain child-free. Dad, hopelessly devoted to Mom, bore the brunt of the pressure, but so did Mom. Unable to bear the thought of her husband torn between his love for her and his duty to his mother, she finally caved.

From the moment she got pregnant, a dark cloud seemed to settle over her. Watching her belly grow and stretch marks appear, she’d break down, sobbing and hitting her stomach. Grandma would beg her to stop, pleading for the baby's sake, if not her own. That was the last straw. Mom flew into a rage, smashing everything in sight and screaming at Grandma, "If you hadn't driven John to the brink of depression, I wouldn't be in this position! You ruined my life just to hold a grandchild. You have no right to tell me anything!" Grandma stood there, tears in her eyes, apologizing profusely. She knew she’d been selfish.

The stress triggered premature labor and a near-fatal hemorrhage. I was born, a tiny four-pound preemie, welcomed by no one but Grandma. Dad, convinced I was responsible for Mom's condition, barely glanced at me before rushing to her side. Frail Grandma cradled me, sighing, "What have I done? I've wronged both of you." She named me Hope, hoping my life would be filled with what she felt had been stolen from my mother.

Back home, Coco, whom Mom treated like her firstborn, eyed me with suspicion. They’d shared a bed throughout Mom’s pregnancy, and Coco seemed to sense I wasn't welcome, snarling and barking at me. My newborn eyes couldn’t focus, and the commotion sent me into a fit of crying. Grandma started to scold Coco, but catching Mom's warning glare and pale face, she retreated to her room with me. Outside, I heard Mom cooing to her "baby," “Don’t worry, sweetheart. No one will ever replace you in this house.”

Worried about her figure, Mom refused to breastfeed. I was lactose intolerant and suffered from severe colic, crying day and night. Mom, an art teacher with an obsession for aesthetics, and Dad, a literature professor with a love for poetry and travel, found their idyllic life shattered. Driven to distraction by my constant crying, they moved into...