My name is Melissa, although most people call me Mel. I was expecting our first baby, a little boy, and I had been trying to enjoy every moment of the pregnancy. But alongside the excitement came an ache I hadn’t anticipated.
My mother had died several years before.
There were days when I missed her so intensely that even ordinary errands became difficult. I’d be shopping for groceries and suddenly want to call her about a pregnancy symptom or ask whether she’d experienced the same thing while expecting me.
I’d imagine her holding my son, smiling down at him with her glasses pushed into her hair.
Then I’d remember she would never get that opportunity.
Our baby would have only one grandmother: Levi’s mother, Diane.
Diane could be overwhelming, but she also had a sentimental side. She cried during family commercials, kept photographs from every milestone, and frequently talked about how long she’d waited to become a grandmother.
I wanted my son to have that relationship.
I wanted him to experience the affection and traditions my own mother would never be able to give him.
So when Diane offered to organize my baby shower, I agreed.
