For 32 years, I believed my father walked out before I was born.
My mom, Diane, never gave me details. Just one statement, always the same, like a prayer she’d memorized to keep me from asking again.
“He chose himself, Lucy. Don’t waste your heart on him.”
That was it. No name, photo, or birthday card somewhere.
“He chose himself.”
My mom’s older sister, Aunt Claire, often stayed with us when Diane worked late or when money got tight.
She packed my lunches in middle school, signed school forms, and somehow always knew when I needed cough syrup or new sneakers before I even asked.
