They say it takes a village to raise a child. For years, I was that village—for my daughter, Claire. I raised her alone after her father left, working multiple jobs, skipping meals, sewing her prom dress by hand, being both Mom and Dad. And I never asked for a thank-you. Claire grew up strong and smart. She went to college, fell in love, and married a man named Zach—polished, traditional, and not particularly fond of me. When Claire had her first baby, my grandson Jacob, I offered to help. She hesitated. Then came the heartbreaking call:
“Zach thinks it’s not healthy for the baby to be around certain family models.” Translation? I wasn’t welcome. All because I raised her alone. I cried. I grieved. I packed the baby blanket I’d knitted, the heirloom rattle, the college bond I’d been saving. And I gave it all to another young mom I met at the church food pantry. Her name was Maya. She had a baby girl and no support. In helping her,