The Father Who Disappeared, The Mother Who Stayed

I grew up believing that my father left me. Not just my mom—but me. And that truth became my foundation. What I didn’t understand then was that it may have been my mother’s way of protecting us. Maybe she needed us to hate him, to stay away from him. Maybe it was her armor—her way of shielding us from harm we couldn’t yet understand. What she never saw was the ripple effect it would have on my sister and me. How that protection would later feel like abandonment from both sides.

My mother raised my younger brothers differently. It always felt like they were treated with a little more softness, more warmth. Maybe it was because they were boys, and she knew how hard the world would be for girls like us. Or maybe she just evolved—became a better parent by the time they came along. And I don’t hold that against her. My brothers are good men. She must’ve done something right.

But the wall I built? It didn’t just go up around friends. It showed up in my classroom too. I kept my distance—not because I didn’t care, but because I did. Deeply. I was terrified of crossing any lines, of having my intentions questioned, of anything jeopardizing what I loved: teaching. So I stayed safe. Behind a boundary.

I was four years old when my father kicked us out. I still remember the steps of that two-story house. The sound of his voice. The night air. My mom, my sister, and me. It wasn’t a dream—I’ve confirmed that with my mom. And yet, it feels surreal that someone could do that to a child. Could you not wait until the morning? Until it was safe?

Everyone said he died. That was the story. But when I turned 18, I found out he wasn’t dead at all. He had remarried. Had a whole new life. No more children, though. Maybe that was fate. A quiet reckoning. I don’t know anything about the man he became, and I’m not sure I want to.

But when it hurts—and it still does sometimes—it makes me grateful for the mom I have. Even if she couldn’t always protect me. Even if she didn’t believe me when I was hurt. Maybe it wasn’t that she didn’t believe me. Maybe she couldn’t. Because to believe me would mean acknowledging that she let danger into our home. That she failed to protect me. And I don’t think she’s ready to carry that.

But she didn’t abandon me. She didn’t leave me. She took us with her, even when it would’ve been easier not to.

I chased education because it was the only thing no one could take from me. It became my armor. My lifeline. My rebellion against dependence. I wanted to be a teacher since I was a little girl. And I fought hard for it. Took time off. Got my credential. My master’s. Kept going, even when I felt like quitting. I found joy in it—especially in those two golden years at the high school level.

But then I transferred—hoping to be closer to my kids, hoping the change would be good. And it wasn’t. The students, the environment, the admin—it all slowly unraveled me. Until I had nothing left to give. And that’s okay.

Because at 33, I’ve realized it’s braver to start over than to stay somewhere that’s killing your spirit.

This isn’t the end of my story. It’s the rebirth of it.