At my son Daniel’s college graduation, I sat alone in the second row, proud but aching—my husband, Mark, had passed away three years ago. As the ceremony began, a young woman caught my eye. Pale and nervous, she held a baby tightly in her arms.
She walked toward me and, without a word, placed the child in my arms. “He’s yours now,” she whispered. Confused, I asked, “I’m sorry—what?” “I can’t do this alone anymore,” she said, teary-eyed. “He deserves more than I can give. You’re his grandmother.”
The baby was around four months old. She told me his name was Marcus, named after my husband. She had dated…