When my parents divorced, the world I knew split clean down the middle. Everyone kept asking who I wanted to live with, as if a child could simply choose between two hearts. In the end, I stayed with my dad. He cooked my favorite meals, drove me to school, and always made sure I felt safe.
My mom, however, never forgave me. At least, that’s how it felt.
Every birthday she missed, every curt phone call, every awkward holiday—each one carved a little more distance between us. I’d ask my dad, “Why is she so angry with me? What did I do wrong?” He’d ruffle my hair gently and say the same quiet words every time: “One day you’ll understand.”
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