When I was five, my mother left me on Grandma Rose’s porch, mascara streaming down her cheeks, whispering that her new husband didn’t want kids. I watched her car disappear as I clutched my stuffed bunny, sobbing. From that day forward, Grandma became my world—she raised me, loved me, and stood by me through every milestone. But despite the warmth and safety she gave me, I never stopped missing my mother. In secret, I drew pictures of her, imagining the love we could’ve had.

Years later, after Grandma passed away suddenly, I spiraled into grief. Then, one rainy afternoon, my mother—Evelyn—showed up at my door. Her face was older, her clothes more expensive, but her eyes were still the same. She claimed she regretted leaving me, that she thought of me every day, and begged for a second chance. Against my better judgment, I let her in. For weeks, she called me, took me out, cried over old photos, and made me believe she truly cared. But something never felt right—she avoided questions about her life and was always glued to her phone.

One evening, her phone buzzed with a message from a man named Richard: “Can’t wait to meet your daughter.” Curious, I looked through the thread and discovered the truth—she’d been using me to impress this man, pretending we were a close family so he’d see her as a loving, maternal figure. My mother hadn’t returned to reconnect; she came back to sell a version of herself to someone new. Heartbroken, I didn’t confront her. I just handed her a box filled with my childhood drawings—hundreds of little hopes she’d abandoned—and watched her fake more tears.

She left the box behind when she walked out the next morning. That was all the proof I needed. Days later, I took that shoebox to the dumpster, not out of bitterness, but peace. I remembered what Grandma always said: “You are a strong, capable young woman, Alexa. Never forget your worth.” And I haven’t. I’m not the little girl drawing fantasy mothers anymore. I’m the woman who finally chose herself.