I received a text early Saturday morning. I was in the middle of bible study; I glanced at it for a few seconds, and a big smile appeared on my face. I was happy.

When I finished bible study and looked over the text again, I was still pleased, but something in me changed. I’m not sure what it was; I thought maybe it was guilt.

But no, because I did my best.

Now I’m tearing up as I write.

I missed him, of course.

Maybe being rehomed with his mother brought out his academic potential, and I am glad!

However, don’t act like I never existed.

Because I showed up when he needed me.

I stood with him at the bus stop before school to make sure he got on the school bus. And I was out there when he got off the school bus after school.

I did my maternal duties: cooking, cleaning, washing. I wiped his nose when he had a cold. I stayed up with him on those nights when he wasn’t well. I read to him. I talked to him. I listened to him. I held him. I loved him

The only thing I didn’t do was take him to his doctor’s appointment. His father did those things. He is not without fault in this story, but this story is n ot about him.

Six years is not a temporary favor.

When she went away, I stepped into the fire and took on the immense responsibility of raising her son.

And now I am no one.

What do I do with that?

Really, what do I do with that?

I was told that I needed to grieve.

Grieve the loss of the child.

Grieve the loss of the relationship we once had.

Feel the hurt.

Cry.

Because something did die.

However, since I did not die, I must learn how to live without him in my life.

And yes, it hurts.

I no longer control what happens in his life anymore,

And I cannot control what he remembers.

But I can honor the woman I was to him.

The woman who stepped up, sacrificed, nurtured, and loved.

The woman who was not nobody.

The woman who mattered.

And perhaps, that is how I start to heal, by not pretending I don’t hurt.