When my mom had decided to
keep Isaac, I was so close to writing
her off. I couldn’t stand the pain
anymore. But seeing her hit with a
bicycle, living like a prisoner in her
own backyard, that was the final
straw for me. I was a broken
person. I was done.
“This thing?” I told her. “This
dysfunctional thing? I won’t be a
part of it. I can’t live this life with
you. I refuse. You’ve made your
decision. Good luck with your life.
I’m going to live mine.”
She understood. She didn’t feel
betrayed or abandoned at all.
“Honey, I know what you’re