My 15-year-old granddaughter Olivia lost her mom at eight. After my son remarried, his new wife seemed sweet until she had twins and turned Olivia into free help. Then, with a fractured shoulder, Olivia was left alone to babysit while her stepmom went bar-hopping. That’s when I stepped in.My granddaughter, Olivia, is 15 years old. Her mother, my son’s first wife, died when Olivia was eight. Cancer. The aggressive kind that doesn’t give you time to say proper goodbyes.Olivia never really recovered from losing her mom. She became quieter and more serious. Like grief had aged her beyond her years.

My son, Scott, remarried three years later to a woman named Lydia. She walked into our lives with a warm smile and a gentle voice, and everyone thought she was exactly what Scott and Olivia needed.But I noticed things. Little comments directed at Olivia when Lydia thought no one was listening.”You’re old enough to move on now, Olivia.””Stop being so emotional about everything.””Your mom wouldn’t want you moping around like this.”Then, Lydia and Scott had twins. Two beautiful, exhausting toddlers who screamed in stereo and had a supernatural ability to destroy a clean room in under three minutes.