My mother left when I was just nine months old. She had dreams of becoming a writer and believed that raising a child—and staying with my dad—would hold her back. So, she walked away. My father, steady and selfless, raised me on his own. He never spoke ill of her. He simply showed up, every single day.
For most of my life, that was enough. I had no desire to hear her side of the story. She had made her choice. I didn’t think there was anything else to know.
But everything changed the year I turned eighteen.
She came back.
Out of the blue, she showed up—teary-eyed, apologizing, asking to talk. My dad stayed silent. I said very little. The anger I’d carried for so long had hardened into something cold. I wasn’t ready.
A week later, a package arrived in the mail. It was from her. I didn’t open it.
Then came the news that changed everything.
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