I was seven years old the day my mother disappeared from my life.
There was no long goodbye, no explanation I could understand at that age. Just a quiet, empty space where she used to be. One day she was brushing my hair before school, humming softly behind me… and the next, she was gone.
My father never spoke about her—not at first.
Instead, he worked.
He worked mornings at a mechanic shop, afternoons delivering packages, and nights stocking shelves at a grocery store. I remember waking up sometimes in the middle of the night and finding him asleep at the kitchen table, still in his uniform, bills scattered around him.
He looked exhausted… but every time I asked if he was okay, he would smile and say, “I’m fine. As long as you’re okay.”