The Postcards My Grandma Gave Me Were Hiding A Secret She Took To Her Grave

She was scared, alone, and had no way to support a baby. In a painful act of sacrifice, she arranged for a distant cousin in the United States to adopt me as a newborn. She then followed, found work as a house cleaner, and stayed close by, watching from the outside.

She waited until I was five years old, then applied to be our family’s “nanny.” My adoptive parents—who were not strangers, but the distant relatives she had spoken of—let her into our home immediately. I never knew the difference.

She never told me directly. Instead, she sent postcards. One every single year, with those cryptic lines that now felt like desperate, silent whispers trying to scream: I am your mother. I’ve always been your mother.

I cried for hours that night—the kind of intense, deep crying that leaves you completely empty. For the next week, I read the letters over and over, calling out of work. It felt too sacred, too unbelievable to share with anyone yet.Continue reading…