I Chose My Rich Mother Over My Poor Father… and Paid the Price

She arrived in a shiny car, wearing expensive perfume and jewelry that caught the sunlight. She had a rich husband, a big house, and stories about a “new life.” She spoke as if the past were an inconvenience, something she’d simply stepped away from. And I let myself be dazzled.

When she offered to take me with her, I didn’t hesitate.

I packed my things and left my dad standing in the doorway of the same small house he’d broken himself to keep. He didn’t beg me to stay. He didn’t cry. He hugged me and said, “If this is what you want, go.”

He never called after that. I told myself he was angry. Too proud to reach out. So I didn’t call either.

Ten weeks later, I came back to town to visit some old friends. On impulse, I stopped by our house.