For years, silence filled every corner of my home. I convinced myself she hated me—maybe deservedly. And yet, every birthday, every holiday, I prayed she was safe.
Sixteen years passed.
Then one quiet afternoon, there was a knock on my door. When I opened it, a tall, confident teenager stood there, holding an envelope.
“Are you… my grandmother?” he asked.
My breath caught.
“I’m your grandson,” he said gently. “This is for you.”
Inside was a wedding invitation—with my daughter’s name printed in elegant script. My hands shook.
