After my daughter-in-law gave birth, she never let me see the baby. Every time I asked, she said, “He’s still sensitive, maybe next week.” I didn’t even know my grandson’s name. My son kept saying, “Mom, she’s tired. Give her time.”
Two months passed. Frustrated, I grabbed some baby clothes and went to their place. When she opened the door, I froze. She looked exhausted—eyes red, hair unwashed. The baby was tiny, with a small oxygen tube on his face.
Hospital papers and medicine lay scattered on the table. She burst into tears. “I didn’t hide him to be cruel,” she said. “He was in the NICU. I was scared you’d worry and blame me.”
I sat down, held my grandson’s hand, and told her I didn’t blame her. I asked his name. “Ray… Ray of sunshine,” she whispered, crying. I cried too. We hugged.
Since then, I visited every week with cooked food, helped clean, and watched Ray so his mom could rest. What I thought was distance was actually her struggle to survive.
Now, Ray is healthy, running around asking for snacks, and she sends me photos of school, missing teeth, and little drawings. We still remember those hard early days, but now we share an unbreakable bond.
