Twenty years after my mother abandoned me, she reappeared—older, frail, clutching a grocery bag. “I need help,” she said. No apology. Just expectation.

My childhood was defined by absence. She left when I was nine, claiming she couldn’t care for me. “Just temporary,” she said. But she never came back. I spent years in foster care, clinging to the lie that she would return.

By 27, I had my own daughter, Emma, and vowed never to repeat my mother’s mistakes. Our home was full of warmth, love, and safety—everything I never had.

So when my mother returned, I hesitated, but let her in.

Soon, the same bitterness resurfaced. “If you weren’t so difficult back then…” she said. I reminded her, “I was nine.” She responded with silence.

Then I heard her whisper to Emma: “Sometimes you have to step back from people who hurt you.”

That was it.

I packed her things—just like she once packed mine—and asked her to leave. “Love is all you have,” I told her. “And you gave up the right to mine.”

Lesson: Being a parent is not about what you expect. It’s about what you give. The cycle ends with me.