As if she realized she had gone too far, she added quickly, “You’ve always loved him. You’ll do better than me.”
She set his suitcase on the pavement, turned around, walked to a waiting car, and slammed the door shut.
And she drove away.
She never looked back.
I stood there frozen, holding a confused little boy as the car disappeared down the street.
Evan buried his face into my coat. His small body shook.
“Auntie,” he whispered. “Where is Mommy going?”
I dropped to my knees, my legs barely holding me.
“I’m here,” I told him. “I’m not going anywhere.”
I did not know then how hard it would be to keep that promise.
I was twenty-seven years old.
Single.
Broke.
Living in a cramped one-bedroom apartment with mismatched furniture and a paycheck that barely covered rent.
I had never planned to raise a child.
I had certainly never planned to raise a child with special needs.
But Evan needed someone.
