“I know you’ve been sneaking out,” I said. “I saw the footage. I heard your call this morning.”
Her jaw dropped, then tightened.
She tried to twist it into me spying on her. I stayed firm. “I’m not angry,” I told her.
“But I’m not blind either. You’ve got two choices. Get help—be a mom.
Or walk away, and I call child services.”
She laughed bitterly, said I wouldn’t follow through. I slid a paper across the table—numbers for therapy, legal aid, parenting support. “Try me,” I said.
That night, she packed a bag and left. No goodbyes. Not to me.
Not to Mason or Lila. Just gone. Later, as I tucked Mason in, he whispered, “Is Mom coming back?”
“I don’t know, buddy,” I admitted.
Lila curled into my lap with her stuffed bunny. “I like your pancakes better,” she murmured. “Tomorrow, chocolate chip,” I promised, kissing her hair.
I didn’t call child services. She was right about me—I’m not the type to give up on kids. Especially not these two.
My life, once so quiet, is loud now. Messy. There are toy cars in the garage, crayon drawings on the fridge, tiny socks mixed in with my laundry.
Mason’s begging to build a go-kart. Lila tapes her artwork to the walls. And you know what?
It’s good. They’re good. Jenny may have walked away, but I won’t.
They’ve already lost enough. They deserve someone who won’t abandon them. So here I am.
Their uncle. Their stand-in dad. Whatever they need me to be.
And I’ll keep making those pancakes.
