Before she learned what love was, she learned what it felt like to be unwanted.
She was too young to understand the whispers around her. Too young to understand why other children spoke about their fathers with excitement while hers was a name she barely knew.
Her father had made his choice long before she was old enough to question it.
He didn't choose her.
He chose another child.
And somehow, even as a little girl, she could feel the difference.
She didn't know the word rejection then.
She only knew that something was missing.
She knew it when other children were lifted into their fathers' arms.
She knew it when family conversations turned quiet whenever her name came up.
She knew it when she asked questions and adults suddenly became interested in something else.
But there was one person who never made her feel unwanted.
Grandma.
Grandma's house was different.
It smelled of food, old furniture, soap, and the warmth of someone who was always happy to see her.
Whenever the little girl ran through the doorway, Grandma's face would brighten.
"Come here, my child."
Those words were enough.
She would run into her arms without hesitation.
With Grandma, she didn't have to compete for love.
She didn't have to wonder whether she belonged.
She simply belonged.
And perhaps that was why she loved Grandma so deeply.
Grandma became more than a grandmother.
She became home.
The little girl didn't know that one day she would lose that home.
She didn't know that the safest chapter of her childhood would eventually become a memory.
For now, she was happy.
She played.
She laughed.
She followed Grandma around the house, sometimes asking questions that made no sense and sometimes simply sitting beside her.
She had younger siblings too, and even though she was still a child herself, something inside her already made her protective of them.
She didn't know it yet, but life would soon force her to grow up much faster than she should.
One afternoon, she sat beside Grandma while she watched her work.
"Grandma?"
"Hmm?"
"Does my daddy love me?"
Grandma stopped.
Only for a second.
But the little girl noticed.
Adults often thought children didn't notice their pauses.
They were wrong.
Grandma looked at her and smiled gently.
"Of course you are loved."
The little girl smiled.
"By Daddy?"
Grandma's eyes changed.
She reached out and touched the girl's cheek.
"You are loved by me."
The little girl accepted the answer.
She didn't know why it wasn't the answer she wanted.
She didn't know why Grandma wouldn't say the words she was waiting to hear.
She simply leaned against her.
And Grandma held her closer.
Years later, she would remember that moment.
Not because of what Grandma said.
But because of what she didn't say.
That evening, the little girl fell asleep believing that as long as Grandma was there, nothing could truly hurt her.
She was wrong.
Years later, when she would look back at her childhood, she would realize something terrifying:
The day she left Grandma's house was the day she stopped being a child.
But she didn't know that yet.
For now, she slept peacefully.
Unaware of the secrets surrounding her birth.
Unaware of the family wounds waiting for her.
Unaware that the woman she called Mama would one day become almost unrecognizable.
And completely unaware that the little girl sleeping safely in Grandma's arms would grow into a woman who would one day look into a mirror and ask herself:
How much pain can one heart survive before it becomes something else?