My father raised me entirely on his own. Every fever, every scraped knee, every late-night supermarket run because I suddenly needed poster board for a school project, he was there.
He cooked, cleaned, did my laundry, and kept the lights on, even when the power company threatened to shut us off. And not once, not a single time, did he complain.
A tired man standing next to a washing machine | Source: Midjourney
What always surprised me most was that he never said a bad word about her. Not even in passing. Not even when he was tired, stressed, or overwhelmed.
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When I was seven, I asked him what my mother looked like. He didn’t get awkward or try to change the subject. Instead, he pulled a small, worn photo out of the nightstand drawer and handed it to me carefully.
“She’s your mom, Dyl,” he said softly. “Of course, you should know what she looks like.”
A pensive little boy sitting on a couch | Source: Midjourney
She had soft brown eyes and auburn hair that spilled over her shoulders. She looked like someone in a shampoo commercial, beautiful, carefree, and untouched by life.
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“Why did she leave?” I asked.
He sat down beside me and let out a quiet sigh.
“Sometimes people make choices we don’t understand,” he said. “That doesn’t mean they’re bad people. It just means… they weren’t ready for whatever was happening at the time. Do you understand that?”
I remember not knowing what to say. So, I just nodded.
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