“Sweetheart, what happened? Where’s Allen? Where’s your husband?” She started sobbing then, deep, wrenching sobs that shook her whole body. “Louis left us two months ago,” she whispered. “He found someone younger, someone without kids. I… I couldn’t pay the rent. I had to give Allen to a shelter because I couldn’t keep him safe anymore.”
I looked at her with wide eyes, unable to process what she’d just said. My grandson was in a shelter. My daughter was homeless and pregnant, sleeping on subway floors.
“Why didn’t you call me?” I asked, taking off my coat to wrap around her shoulders.
“Because I was so ashamed,” she cried. “Because you were right about everything, and I was too proud to admit it. I thought you’d hate me.”
I pulled her into my arms right there on that subway floor, and for the first time in three years, I held my little girl. “Amber, I could never hate you. You’re my daughter, and I love you no matter what. We’re going to fix this, okay? Together.”
The next morning, we went to the children’s shelter.
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