I was 42 but felt decades older. Life had never been kind, but I never asked for kindness—only enough strength to raise my son, Adrian. His father, Marco, walked out when he was two, leaving me to carry the weight of single motherhood alone. He’d reappear when it suited him, flashing a charming smile and a handful of cash, only to vanish again.
I once had dreams—an education, a career—but survival came first. Every penny I earned went to necessities, not luxuries. I patched up Adrian’s worn-out shoes, skipped meals to make sure he ate, and worked two jobs to keep a roof over our heads. I gave him love, stability, and everything I could afford.
But love wasn’t something he could hold like a new phone or a pair of designer sneakers.
The resentment started small—an eye-roll here, a dismissive sigh there. Then, as he grew older, it festered.
