All I wanted was to confirm a suspicion that I couldn’t dispel. But what I discovered that December morning changed everything I thought I knew about my family.
I am a 32 year old mother. And until two weeks ago, I thought the worst thing that could happen in December was running out of time to buy gifts or my daughter getting the flu right before her holiday play.
I was wrong.
I am a 32 year old mother.
It all started on a gray Tuesday morning. My cell phone rang. She was Ruby’s teacher. Mrs. Allen.
“Hello, Erica”, she began. “Would you have a few minutes to give me today? It’s nothing urgent, but I think a little discussion might be helpful. “
I told him I would come by after work.
She was Ruby’s teacher. Mrs. Allen.
When I arrived, the classroom looked like a Pinterest board dedicated to parties. There were paper snowflakes, little gloves hanging from a clothesline, and gingerbread men with bulging eyes. That should have made me smile.
Instead, Ms. Allen’s expression indicated something was wrong.
It should have
make me smile.
It was my daughter’s drawing of four stick figures holding hands under a huge yellow star.
I recognized those who were labeled “Mom”, “Dad” and “Me”. But there was a fourth character.
She was taller than me with long brown hair.
Above her head, my daughter had written “MOLLY” in large letters.
“MOLLY”
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