The next week, Ryan handled drop-off and pickup while I stayed in bed a little longer with a cup of coffee and a book. He did a load of laundry, and though he turned three shirts pink and shrank a sweater, he was proud of himself.
The next week, he made dinner on Tuesday.
My husband and daughter built a birdhouse together, even though it leaned like the Tower of Pisa and had one side painted entirely in glitter.
I watched from the kitchen window as they stepped back to admire it, and for the first time in a long while, I felt something I hadn’t dared to in months… a kind of soft hope rising.
The quiet kind. The kind that doesn’t make promises but gently invites you to believe again.
Then came the following Friday.
“Let’s go get something for Mommy,” Ryan said to Susie after dinner, wiping her hands with a napkin.
“Because she’s done all the work… and now it’s our turn.”
They came home an hour later with a pink gift bag that smelled faintly of chocolate, and inside was a pair of fuzzy socks, a mug that said “Boss Mama,” a slab of chocolate, and a glittery card.
“You’re the best mommy. Love, Susie.”
Not because I was hurt. But because I wasn’t anymore.Continue reading…
