Parenting was my life’s work. I clipped coupons, worked double shifts, and memorized every school schedule like scripture. Jason and I believed if we loved our children enough, they’d always come home.
We were wrong.
After the funeral, the calls dwindled to nothing. I’d stare at my phone, willing it to ring. Then one afternoon, a stranger’s knock changed everything. Mina—flustered, apologetic, holding a leaking umbrella—had the wrong apartment. But her smile reminded me of Jason’s. So I invited her in.
She became my unexpected lifeline. Not out of obligation, but choice. She asked about the photos on my walls. She brought over soup when I was sick. On my 70th birthday, she showed up with a vanilla cake, and for the first time in years, I blew out candles without pretending I wasn’t alone.
When my son’s perfunctory text arrived (“Mom, you good?”), I didn’t cry. I felt…light. The constant ache of expectation faded. I planted a garden. I reconnected with an old friend from accounting class. The unmarked envelope with our beach photo? I keep it on the fridge.
Here’s the truth no one tells you: children grow up, but parents keep loving. And sometimes, the greatest gift isn’t being needed—it’s being chosen by someone who could have walked away.
