My mom left when I was 3 to start a new life. I never saw her. When I was 23, she showed up in tears, asked “to make up for the lost time.” I called Dad; he begged me not to. But I needed my mom, so I let her move in. 3 days later, I woke up, and couldn’t find her. Then I froze…
The apartment was too quiet. Her suitcase—gone. My laptop, wallet, the emergency cash in the coffee tin—all vanished. But the real knife was the open drawer where Dad’s war medals had sat since I was a kid. Empty. She’d taken the only pieces of him I had left.
I called her number; voicemail. Dad answered on the first ring. “Told you,” he whispered, voice cracking. “She always takes what shines.”
I sat on the floor, medals’ velvet box in my lap, and cried for the boy who’d waited twenty years for a ghost. She never wanted time—she wanted a mark.
Months later, a pawn shop postcard arrived: “Sorry. Needed a fresh start. Love, Mom.” I burned it, locked the door she’d picked, and mailed Dad a new medal. Some absences you don’t forgive. You just learn to live lighter.
