She held onto me tighter than usual. I had only stepped out to grab a delivery, but when I came back, she was already waiting at the door—eyes swollen, socks mismatched, her tiny voice trembling.
“Where’d you go?”
I told her the truth—just to the porch, for a few seconds. But it didn’t make a difference.
It never did.
Since that night three months ago, every goodbye felt like an eternity. Every moment she couldn’t see me felt like I had vanished again.
And honestly, I couldn’t blame her.
Because the last time she saw her mom, it was only for a minute. One bag packed, a car door slammed shut—and just like that, she was gone.
So I picked her up without saying a word. She buried her face in my hoodie and melted into me, as if her entire world lived inside my arms.
I stood there swaying gently, the way I used to when she was just a baby.
And just as her breathing began to slow, she whispered:
“Is Mommy coming back this time?”
I nearly collapsed.
I didn’t know how to answer that—not really. Some days, I believed 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 on the temple and told her the only truth I could offer:
“Daddy’s not going anywhere.”
She nodded. And for now, that was enough.
But just before she drifted off in my arms, she murmured:
“Mommy said she loved me… but she loves the world more. What does that mean?”
It hit me like a freight train.
That’s what her mom said before leaving?
I didn’t know whether to feel furious or heartbroken. Maybe both.
I carried her to the couch and sat down with her still asleep on my chest, thinking about everything.
About Lana—her mom—and the dreams she always chased. Traveling the world, starting a wellness retreat in Bali, living on a sailboat, 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 change. I hoped we’d be enough.
We weren’t.
The night she left, she promised she’d call. Said she just needed some time. Maybe a month to clear her head.
She never called. Not once.
I tried reaching out the first week. Then the second. By the third, I stopped.
And now here I was—sitting on the couch with our daughter asleep on my chest—carrying the weight of a promise someone else had broken.
I didn’t know how to explain abandonment to a child.
The next morning, she woke up like nothing had happened. Sat at the table swinging her legs, munching cereal, humming softly to herself.
Kids are like that—resilient, but their memories record everything.
Later that day at the park, she was laughing and playing with a girl her age when I heard the other child ask, “Where’s your mommy?”
I was too far to step in.
Maisie answered, “She’s finding herself. My 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’d fallen asleep, I lay in bed wide awake. I opened my email—no new messages. Then, on impulse, I searched for Lana on social media.
There she was, smiling in a photo from Santorini. Drink in hand. Standing beside a man I didn’t recognize. The caption read, “Living my truth. Free and full.”
I closed the laptop.
The following weeks blurred together—preschool drop-offs, meals, laundry, bedtime stories. Sometimes, in the quiet moments, I imagined her walking through the door again—arms open, tears in her eyes.
But I stopped hoping.
Instead, I started building something new.
I picked up a remote job in graphic design. Worked late after Maisie was asleep. Started going to a single parents’ support group every other Saturday.
It wasn’t glamorous—but it was dependable.
One morning, while dropping Maisie off at preschool, her teacher pulled me aside.
“She’s been talking a lot about traveling,” she said gently. “She draws pictures of boats and airplanes. Mentions ‘finding yourself’ often.”
I nodded slowly.
“She also asked if she could bring a suitcase to school—just in case her mommy picked her up from there.”
My heart cracked in places I didn’t know were still vulnerable.
That evening, I sat down with her after dinner.
“Sweetheart,” I said, kneeling beside her, “you know how sometimes you miss Mommy?”
She nodded, eyes big and trusting.
“I want you to know it’s okay to miss her. But Daddy’s always going to be here. Always.”
“Even if I get mad?”
“Even if you yell so loud the roof flies off.”
She giggled, then grew quiet again.
“Will she come back for my birthday?”
I didn’t know how to answer that.
“I don’t think so, baby. But we’ll still have cake. And balloons. And ponies if you want.”
“Real ponies?”
“We’ll see what the budget says.”
She laughed—and that was enough.
Her birthday came two weeks later. She wore a sparkly dress and danced to every song the DJ played. Her friends came. So did a few parents from my support group.
One of them was Tessa—warm smile, kind eyes, and two kids of her own.
We’d chatted before, nothing serious. But at the party, she stayed behind to help clean up.
I offered her cupcakes. She offered extra juice boxes in return.
I laughed harder than I had in months.
As the sun dipped low, I watched Maisie chase bubbles across the yard, her laughter ringing out like music.
And 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 I knew the handwriting.
It was from Lana.
She apologized—for disappearing, for the silence, for not being ready to be a parent. She said she’d found a job teaching in Morocco and would be there at least a year. She wasn’t in a place to mother, but hoped Maisie might understand someday.
Inside was a bracelet made of seashells and a drawing she’d made for Maisie.
I read the letter twice, then tucked it away.
That night, I told Maisie a simplified version.
“Mommy wrote to us. She’s in another country helping people. She sent you a little gift.”
Maisie took the bracelet, turned it over in her tiny hands, and looked up at me.
“Does this mean she loves me again?”
I pulled her onto my lap.
“She’s always loved you. But sometimes, people show love in ways we don’t expect.”
She nodded slowly. “I think I like your way better.”
Weeks turned into months.
Maisie started kindergarten. Lost her first tooth. Learned to ride a bike—with only one Band-Aid.
Tessa and I began spending more time together. Movie nights with the kids. Weekend picnics. Zoo trips.
It didn’t happen all at once. It was gentle. Steady. Quietly beautiful.
One evening, while tucking Maisie into bed, she surprised me with a question.
“Is Tessa my new mommy?”
I paused.
“No, sweetheart. But she cares about you very much. And she’ll be here if you ever want her to be.”
She smiled sleepily. “I think I want that.”
That winter, Lana emailed again.
She said she might be coming through our city.
She asked if she could see Maisie.
And I wrestled with that question for days.