My mom told me leaving was “temporary.” I was nine, sitting on a worn couch as she said she couldn’t handle me anymore. Social workers came, and I was sent to foster care with only that word—temporary—to hold onto. For years I waited, hoping she’d come back.
At eleven, I mailed her a birthday card, only to have it returned “Return to Sender.” The social worker wouldn’t say it, but I knew then she wasn’t coming. By thirteen, after multiple homes, I stopped hoping and learned to survive alone.
By twenty-nine, I had my own loving family and a life I was proud of—until one day a woman showed up at my door with cookies, claiming to be my mother. Her regretful explanation was that she struggled back then and “thought about me,” but her eyes drifted to my children’s photos.
When I asked why she came now, she said life was hard, then mentioned “he”—my brother I’d never known. She admitted she left me to make room for him. I realized then she hadn’t abandoned me temporarily—she’d replaced me.