My mom left me for another man when I was 11. My dad raised me. He wasn’t perfect, but he was steady — at every parent-teacher conference, on the sidelines of every game, and during the nights when I had more questions than answers about why she had gone.Last week, out of the blue, she called. Her voice was weaker than I remembered. She told me she was very sick and asked if she could come back.
“It would mean a lot if I could stay in the home I raised you in,” she said.But she hadn’t raised me — my dad had. The man who worked double shifts, who learned how to braid hair badly but tried anyway, who sacrificed so much just so I could have a normal childhood. I told her no.Yesterday, the police came to my door to tell me she had passed away.