In my chest, love wrestled with betrayal.
For a moment, I sat in silence, staring at the photos on the wall—Nancy at five, holding a ribbon; Nancy at seventeen, in her graduation gown. I remembered the late nights sewing her costumes, the homemade soups during her fevers, the pride I swallowed so she could shine.
And then I heard it—her sob on the phone. Not the voice of the woman who mocked me online, but the little girl who once called me “Mama” when scared of thunder.
I took a deep breath.
“Come home, Nancy,” I whispered.
When she arrived, carrying her children and her shame like heavy luggage, I said nothing. I opened the door. Set out extra plates. Folded tiny blankets.
That night, I heard her cry again—from the guest room this time.
She never said she was sorry again, but I saw it—in the way she helped wash the dishes, in the way she watched me hold her baby, in the way her voice cracked when she said, “Goodnight, Mom.”
Lesson:
Sometimes love doesn’t look like softness. And sometimes, when your child returns broken… you choose to be a mother again, even if the world thinks you shouldn’t.
