I raised Ethan by myself.
For years, that sentence felt heavier than it looked.
When Ethan was ten, his father, Mark, left.
Not for a new job.
Not because of some family emergency.
He left because he had fallen in love with a coworker named Vanessa.
One month after moving out of our home, he was already living with her.
I still remember the awkward conversation in our kitchen.
Mark stood there with his car keys in his hand while Ethan was upstairs doing homework.
“Sorry, babe,” he said with a shrug. “Cupid’s arrow.”
As if eighteen years of marriage could be explained by a cartoon cherub.
As if breaking a family apart was some romantic adventure.
I didn’t cry in front of him.
I waited until the door closed.
Then I sat on the kitchen floor and cried until I couldn’t breathe.
But the next morning, Ethan still needed breakfast.
He still needed help with math homework.
He still needed someone to cheer at soccer games.
So I got up and became both parents.
I worked mornings at a medical office and evenings at a grocery store.
Some nights I packed lunches at midnight.
Some mornings I slept four hours before starting all over again.
I missed vacations.
I skipped buying new clothes.
I stretched every dollar until it practically begged for mercy.
And somehow, Ethan never complained.
He grew into the kindest young man I knew.
The kind who carried groceries for elderly neighbors.
The kind who thanked cashiers.
The kind who never forgot Mother’s Day, even when he was just a little boy with no money.
Through it all, Mark drifted in and out of his life.
Sometimes he’d show up for birthdays.
Sometimes he’d cancel plans at the last minute.
And every single time, Vanessa seemed determined to compete with me.
At first it was little things.
She bought Ethan expensive gifts.
She posted photos online calling him “my boy.”
Then it became worse.
