When my daughter had her baby, I reached out to hold my grandchild — but she pulled back.
“Mom, I don’t want you holding him. You’re not clean.”
She meant my job at the women’s shelter. “You’re around all kinds of people… germs.” Her words cut deep. I didn’t argue. Weeks passed before she let me hold him — after I’d showered at her house, worn her clothes, and left my shoes outside.
At the shelter, I kept working. One night, a young woman came in with a baby. It was Maddie — my daughter’s old best friend. She’d fled an abusive partner. I helped her find safety, a bed, and a fresh start. “You were always the kindest mom,” she whispered.
Months later, at brunch, my daughter finally let me hold her son again. I mentioned Maddie, and she froze. “She went to you?” she said softly. I nodded. Something shifted in her eyes — understanding, maybe guilt, maybe love.
“I was scared,” she admitted. “I forgot who you are.”
Not long after, she came to the shelter with baby clothes to donate. Then, at Christmas, she handed me a flyer: “Infant Wellness Program for At-Risk Moms — Hale Family Foundation.”
“You showed me what real care looks like,” she said. “Now I want to help too.”
That’s when I cried — not from pain, but healing.
Don’t let fear make you small. Stay kind. Stay standing.
