The memory of that day remains painfully vivid in my mind, even after twenty years. I was five years old, standing on Grandma Rose’s front porch, clutching my stuffed bunny so tightly my fingers hurt. My mom knelt down in front of me, her mascara streaked in black lines down her cheeks as she tried to explain why she had to leave.
“Sweetie, Mark doesn’t want children in his new home,” she said, her voice trembling. “But I love you very much. This is just… the best thing for everyone right now.”
At the time, I didn’t understand much. Mark—her new husband—had entered our lives a few years after my dad passed away. Even as a child, I could sense that he didn’t like me. But what I couldn’t comprehend was why we were standing on my grandmother’s porch—my dad’s mother—on a day that felt so final.
I squeezed my bunny tighter as my mom kissed my forehead. Her flowery perfume lingered in the air long after she walked back to her car. That was the moment it hit me—she was leaving me. For good.
