My son called. His wife had just had a baby girl. My granddaughter.
I was overseas for work and told him I’d be there as soon as I could.
When I finally walked into their house in Greenwich, Connecticut, there was no baby.
“Where is she?”
My son wouldn’t look at me.
“We gave her up for adoption.”
I stared at him.
“What are you talking about?”
“She’s deaf,” he said.
“We don’t think we can handle raising a child who can’t hear.”
They had signed away their five‑day‑old daughter because she couldn’t hear.
I begged them to tell me where she was, which agency. I told them I would take her myself.
“The records are sealed,” he said.
“You have no rights.”
They had made sure I could never find her.
My granddaughter was out there somewhere in the United States, rejected because she was deaf. So I decided I was going to learn her language, so that when I found her, the first thing she would see was someone who had spent years preparing to understand her, to tell her she was wanted, that she always had been.
My son thought the story ended that day.
It was only the beginning.
My name is Nancy, and this is my story.
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The phone rang while I was reviewing my keynote slides in the hotel business center in Berlin, three days before I was scheduled to speak at the European Property Management Conference.
“Mom, it’s happening. Vanessa’s in labor.”
Christopher’s voice came through excited and breathless.
I closed my laptop.
“Right now?”
“We’re at the hospital.
They’re saying a few more hours.
You have a granddaughter coming, Mom.”
My chest tightened in a way I hadn’t felt since my husband died.
A granddaughter. “I’m getting on a plane,” I said.
“Don’t you have that conference thing?” Christopher asked.
“You’re the keynote speaker, right?
That’s a big deal.
Come after. She’ll still be here.”
I looked at my presentation on the screen.
Two hundred people registered, contract signed, organizers planning for months.
“I’ll be there as soon as I can,” I said.
The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
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