I fought every single day.
For seven years.
I learned how to stretch cheap meals for days. How to turn hand-me-downs into something special. How to make birthdays magical with homemade cakes and dollar-store candles. How to show up for school meetings, doctor visits, scraped knees, and nightmares.
The girls became my whole world.
They called me “Bubba” before they could say my name. The word stuck, and I wore it like a badge of honor. At night, they’d fall asleep on my chest during feedings, their small fists gripping my shirt, and I’d whisper promises into the dark.
I’m here. I’m not going anywhere. You will never feel abandoned.
Some nights, when the apartment was finally quiet, I let myself grieve. Not just for the future I’d lost, but for the mother I thought I had. I tried not to hate her. I told myself there must have been a reason.
But seven years passed without a single word.
No birthdays. No holidays. No phone calls. Nothing.
Then, just when life had settled into a fragile kind of rhythm, there was a knock at the door.
Not a casual knock. Not a delivery. A deliberate knock.
I opened the door, and my stomach dropped.
She stood there like a stranger wearing my mother’s face.
Her hair was perfectly styled. Her coat looked like it cost more than my monthly rent. Jewelry caught the light as she shifted her weight, her eyes cool and assessing as they took me in.
She looked successful. Comfortable. Untouched by the years I had lived through.
Then her gaze slid past me and landed on the twins.
Her entire expression changed.
“Oh,” she said softly, smiling. “There they are.”
She lifted her arms, revealing designer bags filled with toys, clothes, shiny boxes spilling with things I had never been able to afford. The girls’ eyes widened. They were seven now. Old enough to notice. Old enough to be impressed.
“Girls,” she said gently, stepping forward. “It’s me. Your mom.”
For a brief moment, my chest tightened. A dangerous thought crossed my mind. Maybe she’s here to fix things. Maybe she regrets leaving. Maybe she wants to know them.
Then she spoke again.
“I’ve done very well for myself,” she said, glancing at her manicure. “And I think it’s time I took them. They deserve more than… this.”
Her eyes swept around the apartment like she was inspecting damage.
That was when it became clear.
She wasn’t here to reconnect.
