At 38, I couldn’t have children. After failed treatments and silence that followed, my husband Andrew and I chose adoption. We welcomed Amara and Liam—two emotionally bonded children from different backgrounds—into our home.

It wasn’t easy. There were no “Mom” moments at first, only slammed doors and sidewalk meltdowns. But we stayed. We listened. Slowly, we became a family.

I threw them a small welcome party. Gloria came—unexpectedly—with guests. And in front of everyone, she said it: “These are my fake grandchildren.” I stood frozen. Until Andrew came home and told her to leave.

Afterward, we didn’t hear from her for months. But word spread. The community didn’t stand with her. She lost her place on boards, clubs, even friendships.

Then, on Christmas, she showed up. Holding a card Amara and Liam had sent her. The same kids she’d rejected had remembered her. She broke down. And maybe, for the first time, really saw them.

They weren’t fake. They were family. And they’d taught her what real love looks like.