I was five years old when my world quietly split in two.
I remember standing at the living room window, my small hands pressed flat against the glass, watching my mother walk away with a single suitcase. I waited for her to stop. I waited for her to turn around. I waited for her to come back inside and say she had made a mistake.
She never did.
From that moment on, it was just my father and me.
At five, I did not understand what had happened. I only knew that one parent was suddenly gone and that the house felt bigger, colder, and far too quiet. My father did his best to fill the space she left behind, but some absences are louder than any noise.
As I grew older, I began to understand the cost of her continue reading …
