I always thought every hardship in my life traced back to one moment — the day my mother walked out. I was nine months old. She vanished, leaving my father, Ralph, to raise me alone. For years, I imagined her as selfish, careless, heartless. Then, on my eighteenth birthday, a small brown package arrived that changed everything.
No letter. No warning. Just a parcel addressed to me, in handwriting I didn’t recognize. The return address froze me: Laurie Bennett — my mother.
I hadn’t seen her since infancy. She was a ghost, someone I only heard about in fragments. Growing up, I’d ask my father, “Why did she leave?” He’d always answer quietly: “She wanted a different life, sweetheart.” That was it. No anger, just a deep, heavy sadness.
My parents had been teenagers when I was born — two kids trying to grow up fast. My mother came from money; her parents cared about appearances over people. To them, my father, a mechanic’s son, was never enough. I grew up believing her departure was a betrayal, a permanent scar on my life.
But my father stayed. He worked tirelessly, sacrificed endlessly, smiled despite exhaustion. He was my world. I didn’t need a mother — at least that’s what I told myself.
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