There are moments in life when you realize that some wounds never truly heal. For me, that moment came at the age of 32 as I stood at my grandmother’s grave, the rain soaking through my black dress. The only person who had ever truly loved me was gone, and across the cemetery stood the woman who had given birth to me.

She didn’t even look in my direction.

I hadn’t seen my mother in years. Not since the day she decided that my younger brother, Jason, was worth raising but I wasn’t.

The rain blurred my vision, but I didn’t blink it away. Instead, I focused on the fresh mound of