On my 8th birthday, my mom told me to pack a bag for a “surprise.” Instead, she dropped me at my dad’s house and left, saying it would only be “for a while.” I hadn’t seen him in almost a year, and it was clear he hadn’t expected this either.
Days turned into weeks. Mom stopped answering calls, and I eventually realized she wasn’t coming back anytime soon. Dad struggled at first, but he stepped up—got a steady job, took care of me, and tried his best even when he didn’t know what he was doing.
Eight months later, Mom returned looking worn down. She’d been in rehab. She wanted me to live with her again, but by then I’d built a life with Dad, so I chose to stay with him. She accepted it, and we slowly rebuilt our relationship.
Years later, I found court papers showing Dad had fought for emergency custody because he was the only one who could take me. I finally understood how hard he’d tried.
Now I’m 27, with my own life, calling Dad every Sunday and Mom every other Thursday. That birthday was painful, but it gave my dad a second chance, helped my mom get healthy, and showed me what real, imperfect love looks like.
