For four months, I trusted the sweet woman who cleaned my house and hugged my children. Then one afternoon, I walked past the bathroom and saw what she’d been hiding under that little bandage on her wrist. That’s when I realized she’d come into our home with ulterior motives.I’m 38 years old, with three small children who are the center of my universe.When I went back to work full-time, I could barely keep up with the laundry, let alone the emotional needs of three tiny humans.One day, I was apologizing to my boss for sneaking out ten minutes early. The next, I was promising my kids I’d make it up to them for getting home 20 minutes late.”I’m doing this for you guys,” I’d whisper to them, even though they were too young to care about 401ks or college funds. “It’s for your future. For stability.”But I knew eventually something would have to give.

When the house finally went quiet at night, the guilt would settle in.I’d sit on the edge of my youngest daughter’s bed, watching her sleep, and a heavy weight would settle in my gut.I wondered if she would grow up remembering me only as a blur of tired eyes and a phone pressed to my ear.The thought was too much to bear, especially after the way I’d grown up.I was adopted when I was very young. Most of my memories of my biological mother are like trying to look through a thick fog. I can’t recall her scent or picture her face.But one image has stayed perfectly sharp: a picture of a small blue bird.I remember tracing it, my finger gliding over the vertical bumps beneath the surface, and a woman (my mom, I assumed), saying, “It shows my love for you — a love that will last forever.”Except it didn’t last forever.