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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.
Copyright ©
jeffrey george
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