I was five years old when my mother packed a single suitcase and walked out of our house.
I still remember that morning.
I stood by the window with my fingers pressed against the glass, watching her walk toward the car. I kept waiting for her to stop, turn around, and come back for me.
She never did.
The car disappeared at the end of the street, and that was the last time I saw my mother for many years.
From that day on, it was just my father and me.
Dad worked four jobs to keep us going.
Four.
He left before sunrise and often didn’t come home until long after dark. When he finally walked through the door, his clothes smelled of grease, sweat, and cheap coffee. His hands were rough from years of hard labor, and there were always dark circles beneath his eyes.
