She clung to me tighter than usual. I’d just stepped outside for a moment to grab a delivery, but when I returned, she was already waiting by the door—her eyes puffy, socks mismatched, her small voice shaky.
“Where did you go?”
I told her the truth—I was only on the porch for a few seconds. But it didn’t seem to matter.
It never did.
Since that night three months ago, every goodbye stretched endlessly. Every moment apart felt like I’d disappeared again.
And honestly, I couldn’t blame her.
Because the last time she saw her mom, it was just for a minute. One packed bag, a slammed car door—and just like that, she was gone.
Without a word, I scooped her up. She buried her face in my hoodie, melting into my arms as if my embrace was her whole world.
I swayed gently, like I used to when she was a baby.
As her breathing slowed, she whispered:
“Is Mommy coming back this time?”
My heart nearly broke.
I didn’t have a clear answer. Some days, I hoped she might. Other days, I wasn’t sure I even wanted her to. But how do you explain that to a four-year-old?
So I kissed her temple and gave her the only truth I could:
“Daddy’s not going anywhere.”
She nodded, and for now, that was enough.
Just before she fell asleep, she murmured:
“Mommy said she loves me… but she loves the world more. What does that mean?”
It hit me hard.
That’s what her mom said before leaving?
I didn’t know whether to be angry or heartbroken. Maybe both.
I carried her to the couch and sat down, her still asleep on my chest, thinking about everything.
About Lana—her mom—and the dreams she always chased. Traveling, opening a wellness retreat in Bali, sailing, teaching yoga in the Andes.
I used to admire her free spirit. I thought it was beautiful how she refused to be tied down.
But after Maisie was born, I hoped she’d stay. I hoped we’d be enough.
We weren’t.
The night she left, she promised to call. Said she just needed some time—maybe a month to clear her head.
She never called. Not once.
I tried reaching out week after week, but eventually, I stopped.
Now, I sat on the couch with my daughter asleep on my chest, bearing the weight of a broken promise.
I didn’t know how to explain abandonment to a child.
The next morning, she woke up as if nothing had happened. Sat at the table, swinging her legs, eating cereal, humming softly.
Kids are resilient, but their memories hold everything.
Later, at the park, she was laughing and playing when another child asked, “Where’s your mommy?”
Maisie answered, “She’s finding herself. Daddy says she might get lost again, but he’ll never lose me.”
I didn’t know whether to smile or cry.
That night, long after she slept, I opened my laptop and searched for Lana on social media.
There she was—smiling in Santorini, drink in hand, beside a man I didn’t know. The caption: “Living my truth. Free and full.”
I closed the laptop.
Weeks blurred—preschool, meals, laundry, bedtime stories.
Sometimes I imagined her walking back through the door, arms open, tears in her eyes.
But I stopped hoping.
Instead, I built a new life.
I took a remote graphic design job. Worked late after Maisie slept. Joined a support group for single parents.
It wasn’t glamorous—but it was steady.
One day, at preschool drop-off, Maisie’s teacher pulled me aside.
“She talks a lot about traveling,” she said. “Draws boats and planes, talks about ‘finding yourself.’”
“She even asked if she could bring a suitcase—just in case Mommy picks her up.”
My heart cracked.
That night, I sat with Maisie after dinner.
“Sweetheart, missing Mommy is okay,” I said. “But Daddy’s always here. Always.”
“Even if I get mad?”
“Even if you yell so loud the roof flies off.”
She giggled.
“Will she come back for my birthday?”
I didn’t know.
“I don’t think so, but we’ll have cake and balloons. Maybe ponies, if the budget says yes.”
She laughed—that was enough.
Her birthday came. She danced in a sparkly dress. Friends and parents from my support group came too.
One was Tessa—warm smile, kind eyes, two kids.
She stayed to help clean. We shared cupcakes and laughs.
As the sun set, I watched Maisie chase bubbles, her laughter like music.
For the first time since Lana left, it didn’t feel like something was missing.
A few days later, a letter arrived. No return address, but the handwriting was hers.
Lana apologized—for disappearing, for the silence, for not being ready to be a mom.
She said she was teaching in Morocco for at least a year, not ready to parent but hoping Maisie might understand.
Inside was a seashell bracelet and a drawing for Maisie.
I read the letter twice, then tucked it away.
That night, I told Maisie.
“Mommy wrote to us. She’s helping people far away. She sent you a gift.”
Maisie held the bracelet and asked, “Does this mean she loves me again?”
I pulled her close.
“She’s always loved you. Sometimes love looks different than we expect.”
She nodded slowly. “I think I like your way better.”
Months passed.
Maisie started kindergarten, lost her first tooth, learned to ride a bike with one Band-Aid.
Tessa and I grew closer—movie nights, picnics, zoo trips.
It was gentle, steady, quietly beautiful.
One night, as I tucked Maisie in, she surprised me.
“Is Tessa my new mommy?”
I paused.
“No, sweetheart. But she cares about you. She’ll be here if you want her to.”
She smiled sleepily. “I think I want that.”
That winter, Lana emailed again.
She said she might visit and wanted to see Maisie.
I wrestled with that for days.