That night, I sat outside their bedroom door and listened to Mom sob.
“We have nine children. I’m due in four weeks.”
“I deserve to be happy,” he said. “I’ve given twenty-five years to this family. God doesn’t want me miserable.”
“You’re their father.”
“You’re strong,” he told her. “God will provide.”
Then he walked out with one suitcase and a Bible verse.
The years after blurred into tight budgets and food stamps. Mom cleaned office buildings at night, hands raw from chemicals, then came home to pack lunches. He sent the occasional scripture. Rarely money. Almost never his voice.
Whenever we spoke badly about him, Mom stopped us. “Don’t let his choices poison you,” she’d say. “People make mistakes.”
I didn’t let it poison me. I sharpened it.
By Friday, an email arrived from the nursing college. “Your mother will be receiving our Student of the Decade honor.”
I read it twice at the same kitchen table where she once cried over utility shutoff notices.
Ten years ago, she took one community college class because she couldn’t scrub floors forever. Then another. Then a full course load. Now she was a nurse. And she was being honored for it.