As my daughter shoved me against my own kitchen wall and said, “You’re going to a nursing home. Or you can sleep with the horses in the paddock. Pick one,” I didn’t cry.

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My name is Sophia. I’m sixty-two, and I spent my whole life believing a mother’s love could conquer anything. That if you gave everything—every last bit of yourself—your children would understand that love. But life showed me, harshly, that it doesn’t always work that way.

I raised Alexis on my own from the time she was five. My husband, Jim, walked out without so much as a glance back, leaving us behind with debts and a small property on the outskirts of a quiet town in Vermont. The place had a big stretch of land and a few horses Jim kept as a hobby. When he left, I considered selling it all, but Alexis adored those animals. Her little face lit up every time she touched their manes, and I couldn’t bring myself to take that away from her.

So I pushed forward. I sewed during the day and cleaned offices at night. My hands grew rough and my back ached constantly. But when I saw Alexis smile, it felt worth every sacrifice. I paid for her school, her clothes, her hopes. Continue reading…