After twelve years of loving, helping, driving, paying, and showing up, my stepchildren told me, “You’re not the one who raised us.” So I finally stopped being the woman they only needed when life got hard. When they asked where I went, their mother knew the truth.

pay for it.”

“That’s good,” I said. “I’m glad.”

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Her eyes filled. “I miss you.”

There it was. The sentence I had once wanted, back when wanting it had nearly destroyed me.

“I miss parts of it too,” I said.

She flinched slightly, then nodded. “Do you hate me?”

“No.”

“Do you love me?”

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