After that, I reached out to the baby’s father—a man Sarah had only known briefly. When he finally answered, his voice was distant and cold.
“Look, I told Sarah from the beginning I wasn’t ready for this,” he said flatly.
“But you have a daughter,” I pleaded. “She needs you.”
“You’re the grandmother,” he replied. “Handle it.”
And just like that, the line went dead.
When I tried again, I realized he had blocked my number.
So this is my life now.
At three in the morning, I rock a baby in the dim light of the living room.
By noon, I sit at the kitchen table counting coins.
I once imagined retirement differently. I pictured book clubs, garden gatherings, maybe even a cruise with the widows from my church.
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