When I was eleven years old, my mother left our family. She packed her things one morning, said very little, and walked out of the house with another man. My father and I stood in silence as the door closed behind her. That was the day my childhood changed forever.
My dad did his best. He worked long hours, made sure I was cared for, and never spoke badly about her. But no matter how much time passed, there was always an empty space—an unanswered question about why she left and what she had chosen over us.
