I hated her when money was tight, and I had to choose between missing work and leaving him with someone else.
I hated her when therapists handed me lists of exercises and told me consistency mattered.
I hated her every night when I slept terrified that one mistake would hold our son back.
I hated her on his birthdays.
I hated her on Mother’s Day, when he came home from school with handmade cards he had made for a mother who wasn’t in his life.
A mother he never knew of.
When Leo was six, he asked me what happened to his mother.
I was washing dishes, and the question nearly made me drop a plate.
“Some homes just have one parent, Leo,” I said.
“I know. But that doesn’t mean I don’t have a mother.”
I turned off the tap.
“As long as we have each other, we have everything we need.”
