My dad raised me alone after my mom left when I was three. He worked three jobs to provide for us, always making time to pack my lunch, attend school events, and help with homework. He tried to shield me from the pain of her absence. But at sixteen, I was angry at the world and especially at him. During a stupid argument about curfew, I snapped and screamed, “I wish mom had taken me with her!”

He didn’t yell back. He simply went quiet, his face showing a pain I had never seen. Two weeks later, I came home to find my mom sitting awkwardly on the couch. My dad stood beside her and said gently, “She reached out, and you said you wanted to know her. So here’s your chance.” I felt a mix of betrayal, fear, and hope.