When I was nine, my mother said she couldn’t handle me anymore. She left me with social workers, promising it was temporary. I waited—days turned into years.
At eleven, I sent her a birthday card. It came back unopened. By thirteen, I stopped hoping.
I drifted through foster homes, each one echoing with silence. I learned not to expect anything. I buried the need to be wanted.
At twenty-nine, married with children of my own, she showed up—holding a plate of chocolate chip cookies, hands trembling. “I’m your mother,” she said.
We talked. She spoke of an abusive partner, of fear and shame, of the way life broke her and kept her broken. She never healed, never came back for me—until that day.
I asked, “Why bring cookies?”
She smiled weakly. “You always loved them. I hoped they might remind you of something good.”
They didn’t.
But I listened.
I didn’t forgive her—but I let her speak. Sometimes healing doesn’t arrive with apologies or answers. Sometimes, it starts with showing up.
