My biological mother abandoned me when I was a baby. Years later, she showed up uninvited at my wedding and interrupted the mother-son dance, demanding I choose her in front of everyone — until my FIL stood up and the room went completely silent.
My earliest memory of my biological mother wasn’t really a memory of her at all.
It’s what my father told me when I was old enough to hear the truth about why she left:
“She said this life wasn’t enough for her, that she was leaving because she deserved better.
I think she wanted to take you with her, but she told me her boyfriend didn’t want to raise another man’s child.”
Dad used to frown at that point.
I remember looking down at my hands on the table, wondering how she could make that choice.
Was there something about me that made it easy for her to walk away?
Was I too loud? Too needy? Not enough?
Dad placed his hand on my shoulder, as if he’d sensed my thoughts.
“The choices she made have nothing to do with you, Ryan. Nothing, you hear me? You’re a great kid.”
I wanted to believe him, but when someone who’s supposed to love you walks away, it’s hard not to wonder what you did wrong.
Growing up, I knew my dad by the sound of keys at the door after dark.
He worked two jobs, sometimes three.
I’d wake up in the morning and find him asleep on the couch in his work clothes, too tired to make it to his bedroom.
Some nights, he’d kiss the top of my head while I pretended to sleep.
“Sorry I’m late, buddy,” he’d whisper.
I never minded being alone. I had my toys, my books, my imagination.
I once asked him why he worked so much.
He smiled. “Because you need shoes that fit, and food that isn’t just cereal.”
When I told him I didn’t mind cereal, he laughed softly.
That was my dad. Never complaining or asking for help, just doing what needed to be done.
I was eight when Nora showed up.
She didn’t bring toys to bribe me with.
Instead, she shook my hand like I was a person worth respecting.
“I’m Nora,” she said. “Your dad says you like dinosaurs.”
I nodded, suspicious of this new woman in our house. I’d seen my dad date before.
All those women had talked to me in baby voices and offered me candy and toys like they could buy my approval.
“Triceratops is my favorite,” I said, testing her.
She smiled. “Solid choice. I like Parasaurolophus.”
The story doesn’t end here — it continues on the next page.
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