Two months. Two agonizing months. My grandson. I haven’t seen him. Not once.It started like a dream, the news. My son, my only boy, was going to be a father. I wasn’t her biggest fan, his partner, but a baby changes everything, right? It was supposed to heal the unspoken rifts, to bring us all closer. I threw myself into preparations, buying tiny outfits, a special blanket, imagining his little face. My heart swelled with a hope I hadn’t felt in years.The call came in the dead of night. “He’s here, Mom!” My son’s voice, hoarse with emotion. Tears streamed down my face. Joy, pure and unadulterated. I was going to be a grandmother. The world suddenly felt vibrant, full of possibilities. I pictured tiny hands, a soft head against my shoulder.
Then the excuses started.
“He’s sleeping, Mom. We just got home. It’s chaos.”
“We’re both exhausted. Maybe next week?”
“He’s a bit colicky, we don’t want to overwhelm him with visitors.”
Always an excuse.
Katy Bates at the 73rd Annual Academy Awa
I tried to be understanding. New parents need their space. I sent gifts, lovingly wrapped, full of things a newborn would need. They went unanswered. No thank you. No picture. Not even a simple text confirming they arrived.
I called my son. His voice was always strained, distant. He sounded tired. More than tired – defeated. “She’s just… protective, Mom. You know how she is.” He’d always say. But it wasn’t just protective; it was a total lockdown. I suggested video calls. “He’s usually asleep when you call,” he’d mumble. “Or we’re feeding him. It’s just hard.”
Hard? My mother’s intuition, a primal, ancient thing, started to scream. This wasn’t normal. Every new parent I knew was drowning their social feeds with baby photos, FaceTiming grandparents, showing off their bundle of joy. But us? Nothing. It was like he was a secret.
Two months. Two months of longing, of polite requests met with brick walls, of seeing my son slowly fade, becoming a shadow of himself. His calls became less frequent, his tone flat. He never asked about me. Never shared anything about his new life. What kind of new father doesn’t gush about his child?
Kathy Bates arrives for the 74th Academy Awards at the Kodak Theater in Hollywood, California on March 24, 2002.
I spent sleepless nights staring at the ceiling, a knot of dread tightening in my stomach. Was he sick? Was something wrong? Why couldn’t I see him? The questions tormented me, twisting into monstrous possibilities in the dark. I tried to talk to my son, to really talk to him. “Is everything okay? Are you both well?” He’d deflect, promise to call back, and then wouldn’t.
The breaking point arrived like a tidal wave. I was looking at the tiny blue sweater I’d bought, imagining him wearing it, and the image shattered. ENOUGH. My mother’s heart overruled all politeness, all fear of intruding. I didn’t care if I was unwelcome. I didn’t care if she hated me. I was going to see my grandson. TODAY.
I drove for hours, the old car humming a nervous tune on the highway. My hands gripped the steering wheel so tightly my knuckles were white. Dread warred with a fierce determination. What would I find? Would he be sickly, tiny, neglected? Would she turn me away at the door? I wouldn’t let her.
Kathy Bates is seen at LAX in Los Angeles, California on April 19, 2016.
I pulled up to their house. It looked… neglected. The lawn was overgrown, blinds were drawn, a single flickering porch light the only sign of life. Not the vibrant, joyful home of new parents. My heart hammered against my ribs.
I knocked. A soft, hesitant rap at first, then harder, more insistent. After a long moment, the door creaked open. She stood there, hair disheveled, eyes wide with alarm. Her face went utterly white when she saw me.
“What are you doing here?” Her voice was a strained whisper, laced with panic.
My voice was steady, calm, a stark contrast to the earthquake raging inside me. “I’m here to see my grandson.”
She tried to block the doorway. “You can’t. He’s… he’s sleeping. We’re not well. You can’t just show up!” Her voice rose with each word, a desperate, frantic edge to it.
Kathy Bates is seen in an episode on “Matlock” on October 30, 2025.
I pushed past her, gently but firmly. I walked into the living room. It was eerily quiet. Too quiet. My eyes swept around. No baby carrier. No stack of burp cloths. No overflowing diaper bag. No tiny toys scattered on the floor. Just… silence.
My gaze fell on a small hallway. The nursery, I assumed. My breath hitched. I walked towards it, my legs feeling like lead. She was behind me, muttering, pleading, trying to pull me back. “Don’t go in there! Please! Just… please!”
I ignored her. My hand trembled as I reached for the doorknob. This is it. I’m finally going to see him. I took a deep, shuddering breath and pushed the door open.
My world tilted.
The room was… empty.
Not just tidy. EMPTY. A perfectly made bed, an old dresser, a forgotten laundry basket. NO CRIB. NO CHANGING TABLE. NO STUFFED ANIMALS. NO ROCKING CHAIR. NO DIAPERS. NO BABY SMELL. NO SIGNS OF A BABY. AT ALL. It was a spare room. A guest room. An unused space.
Kathy Bates and Skype Marshall on an episode of “Matlock” on October 23, 2025
My blood ran cold. The silence in that room was deafening, screams trapped in my throat. I spun around, my eyes wild, searching for her, for my son. My vision blurred.
“WHERE IS HE?!” The words ripped from me, a raw, guttural sound I barely recognized as my own. “WHERE IS MY GRANDSON?!”
She crumpled. Sinking to the floor, her shoulders shaking with silent sobs. That’s when I saw him. My son. He emerged from the kitchen, looking utterly shattered, like a ghost haunting his own life. His eyes, usually so bright, were empty, desolate.
He took a step towards me, then stopped, his gaze fixed on the empty room behind me. “Mom,” he whispered, his voice thin, broken. “There… there is no baby.”
Kathy Bates reacts as the “Matlock” cast and crew surprise her with a celebration in Los Angeles on July 15, 2025
The air left my lungs. The ground beneath me vanished. I stared at him, then at her, then back at the empty room. My mind reeled, grasping for comprehension, finding only a gaping void.
“What do you mean, ‘no baby’?” I managed to choke out, my voice barely audible.
He swallowed hard, tears welling in his eyes. “She… she faked it. The whole thing. The pregnancy, the birth. She just… she made it all up.”
A lie. Two months of agony. Two months of hope. Two months of loving a child who never existed. MY GRANDSON NEVER EXISTED.
My son’s eyes met mine, filled with a pain that mirrored my own, multiplied by his intimate involvement in the charade. “I found out a few weeks ago,” he confessed, his voice barely a whisper. “She wouldn’t let me tell you. I didn’t know what to do. I’m so sorry, Mom.”
A serious man | Source: Pexels
The silence in the empty room consumed me. The quiet thoughts, the worry, the frantic pleading inside my head… all gone. Replaced by a deafening roar of grief for a child I had only imagined. My son, my poor, broken son, standing there, a victim of a deception so cruel it defied belief. My heart shattered, not just for the grandson I’d never meet, but for the man my son had become, caught in a lie that had stolen his future and mine. The baby never existed.
