But I need you to know I never stopped being her mother, even from a distance. Please give this to her when you think she’s ready.”
I sat on the floor holding that bear for over an hour.
The weight of it in my hands felt heavier than it should have been—heavy with years, with regret, with a love that had never known how to stay. Tears streamed down my face as memories collided with truths I hadn’t wanted to face.
She hadn’t been a good mother.
But she had been a mother.
And maybe loving imperfectly didn’t mean not loving at all.
I hid the bear in my closet that night, behind winter coats and old shoes.
I told myself I was protecting my stepdaughter again—protecting her from pain, from questions, from grief she didn’t need to carry.
Years passed.
My stepdaughter is sixteen now. Confident. Kind.
Thriving in ways that make my heart ache with pride. She laughs easily. She trusts deeply.
She calls me Mom without hesitation.
She doesn’t know about the phone call.
She doesn’t know about the bear.
Sometimes, late at night, I open my closet and take it out. I run my fingers over its worn fur and wonder what would have happened if I had said yes. If one last goodbye might have healed something—for both of them.
I don’t know if I’ll ever tell her the truth.
But lately, I’ve been thinking that maybe she deserves to know.
That she was loved twice.
That two women, in very different ways, gave her everything they had—even if one of them didn’t know how to stay.
