For the one who stays

She wakes before the sun, packs two lunches—one for school, one for work, if she remembers to eat. She brushes her child’s hair while tying back her own pain. She looks in the mirror and sees a woman who stayed too long for someone who only knew how to disappear. He said forever, then broke it quietly. Took the best of her years and left her with bills, baggage, and a child who still asks, “When’s Daddy coming back?” She smiled through that. She wiped away tears and said, "You’ve still got me, baby." And somehow, that was enough. She folds laundry with music on to drown out memories— his lies, his hands that once promised safety, his phone that buzzed with someone else’s name while she sat in the same room. He made her feel small. But she got bigger. He broke trust. She built a life. No one sees how many times she cries in the shower so no one hears. Or how her hands shake when the car won’t start, but she still makes it on time. She carries birthdays alone, doctor visits alone, discipline and dance recitals—alone. But her child never feels the weight. Because she shields them with everything she’s got left. She is the peace she never had. She is the healing she wasn’t given. So to the woman who rebuilt herself from betrayal, who took pain and turned it into protection— We see you. We thank you. And we know: You are the storm. You are the shelter. You are the reason someone will grow up believing in love— because you never stopped giving it, even when no one gave it to you.