New Hampshire was where I had spent most of my life and where things had fallen apart–my marriage had dissolved, I’d lost my job, then my home.
I had come to Florida, thinking maybe I could start over. But here I was, camped out with my kids at a friend’s place. The only work I could find was part-time. I was 42 years old and had no way to support my family, no home, nowhere I really belonged.
I’d made a mess of pretty much every opportunity I’d ever been given. And maybe I didn’t deserve another chance. Maybe there really was no hope for me.
Then Meredith called from New Hampshire. “Elizabeth? I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but your Gram’s in a bit of a fix.” I caught my breath.
Meredith was the daughter-in-law of Minerva Beal, the woman who had taken me into her Manchester, New Hampshire, group home when I was an infant and basically raised me. She was the woman I called Gram. The one constant in my crazy life.
Recently she’d had heart surgery, and I had visited her just before I left for Florida.
“Are you still looking for work?” Meredith asked. Before I could answer she said, “Because Gram’s caregiver is moving away and we could really use you up here. You and your kids could live in Gram’s house.”
I felt like I’d been whiplashed–anxious for Gram, stunned at this sudden lifeline. “I–I need to run it by the kids first,” I replied. But inside I knew.
My birth mom, unmarried when she had me, frankly admitted she couldn’t care for me or my two older sisters when she dropped us off at Gram’s group home...read more
