For four years, I told myself I could survive anything as long as Jane made it to graduation.
That was the promise I lived on when my feet ached too badly to stand, when bills sat open on the kitchen table like accusations, when I came home so tired I forgot whether I had eaten or only thought about eating.
Just get her there, I told myself.
Just get her across that stage.
My husband left when Jane was five.
There was no screaming, no dramatic affair confession, no broken dishes on the kitchen floor. Just one quiet conversation after Jane had gone to bed.
He sat across from me at the table and said, “I don’t think I can do this anymore.”
I remember staring at him, confused. “Do what?”
He looked down at his hands.
“This life.”
The next morning, his suitcase was by the door.
Jane padded into the kitchen in her socks, rubbing her sleepy eyes. “Why is Daddy dressed like that?”
He crouched, kissed the top of her head, and said, “I have to go for a while.”
I worked days at a small office, answering phones and filing paperwork. At night, I cleaned exam rooms at a clinic. On weekends, I stocked shelves at a grocery store whenever they called.
I kept telling myself it was temporary.
It wasn’t.
Jane grew up inside that struggle, but she never made it heavier. That almost hurt more. She was the kind of child who noticed everything and asked for nothing.
