I didn’t pack away Erin’s things. I couldn’t. Her sweater stayed on the hook by the door. Her mug with the big letter E stayed in the cabinet. Our wedding photos stayed on the walls. I refused to lie to my daughter.
When Maisie got old enough to start asking questions, I gave her the only honest answer I had.
“Did Mommy go to heaven?” she asked.
“No, baby.” I swallowed. “Mommy didn’t go to heaven.”
She frowned, her little brow creasing. “Then where did she go?”
“She… left,” I said quietly. “I don’t know why. But I know it wasn’t because she didn’t love you.”
“Did she not like me?” she whispered.
That one always cut deepest.
“She loved you, Maisie,” I said. “Something went wrong inside her. With me. With life. I don’t know. But it was never because of you.”
By five, Maisie was all curiosity and loose teeth and marker on her hands. We’d built our own version of a life. It wasn’t what I imagined, but it was ours. Just the two of us and the ghost of a woman neither of us knew how to place.
The TV was on in the background—the kind of local talk show I usually tuned out. A host interviewing community “success stories.” Politicians. Business owners. The occasional viral singer.
I was halfway through matching socks when Maisie’s voice cut through the noise, sharp and urgent.
“Daddy. Daddy, look.”
I glanced up.
On the screen, under studio lights, stood a woman in a navy dress. Dark hair pulled back, microphone clipped discretely to her cheek. She looked older than the person in our photos—more defined somehow, a little tired around the eyes. Confident, but carrying something heavy.
The camera zoomed in.
My heart stopped.
“That’s Mommy,” she breathed.
It was Erin.
There was no mistaking it. I’d memorized that face once. I’d watched it fall asleep beside me, seen it crumple in laughter, watched it crease with pain during labor.
Now it was on my television, framed by graphics and a chyron with a name I didn’t recognize.
The host smiled at her. “Tonight we’re joined by up-and-coming singer-songwriter—” he used that new name “—here to perform her original piece about motherhood and reinvention.”
Motherhood.
Reinvention.
They talked for a bit. I barely processed any of it. My ears only tuned back in when Erin turned toward the camera and her expression shifted from performance to something rawer.
“If Mark and Maisie are watching,” she said, her voice low and steady, “I’m sorry. And I’m finally ready to tell you the truth.”
Maisie grabbed my hand, eyes wide and shining. “She said our names. She said our names, Daddy!”
I couldn’t answer. My throat had gone dry.
“I didn’t leave because I didn’t love you,” Erin continued. “I left because I was drowning. I felt like I was disappearing into something I couldn’t name. I thought if I stayed, I would become bitter and angry. Someone my daughter wouldn’t recognize. Someone she wouldn’t want.”
She paused, swallowed hard.
“I know this isn’t the right way to explain it. I know it doesn’t make it fair. But if you’re seeing this, I want you to know I’ve spent five years trying to find my way back to myself. And now that I have, I want to find my way back to you too.”
She reached into the pocket of her dress and pulled out something small—a frayed gray drawstring. The camera focused on it.
“When Maisie was a baby, she used to fall asleep holding the string from the hoodie I always wore,” she said. “One morning, it was gone. I kept it. I carried it through every apartment, every city. It reminded me of what I almost gave up. And what I hope I still have a chance to return to.” Continue reading…
