When my son Daniel told me Ashley was pregnant, I cried in the car for ten minutes before I could drive home.
My first grandchild.
I’m sixty-one. I’d been retired a little over a year. I had all the time in the world, and I wanted to spend a good part of it being a grandmother.
Ashley had other ideas.
She’d never warmed to me. I tried. Birthday cards, recipes she asked for once, offers to help with the house that were always politely declined. I told myself it took time.
Then the baby shower invitations went out.
Mine didn’t come.
Daniel was embarrassed. “She just wants it small, Mom.”
Forty-two people went. I saw the photos.
Early in her third trimester, Ashley posted on Facebook. A picture of her bump and a caption with a little crossed-arms emoji:
“Delivery room is for REAL family only. No in-laws. No exceptions. Don’t ask. 
”
Thirty-one people liked it. Her mother commented, “That’s my girl!!”
I didn’t comment. I didn’t call Daniel to complain. I went to my sewing room and finished the baby blanket I’d been knitting since the day he told me — white and pale yellow, because they weren’t telling anyone if it was a boy or a girl.
I put it in a gift bag and left it on their porch. No note. Just the blanket.
Nobody said thank you.
Two weeks later, Daniel had a work conference in Denver. The baby wasn’t due for another seven weeks, so Ashley told him to go.
