She was the bestest mommy in the world.
I would cry, and she came running.
I smiled and her face would light up.
I moved and she’d be there, holding her arms out, ready to grab me if I fell.
She helped me.
She took care of me.
She loved me.
We lived in a small, isolated world. It was just us most of the time.
Me and mommy.
My grandparents lived with us, but they ignored me.
Sometimes, grandma and grandpa would say stuff to her and she would get all quiet.
Even at that age I was quick enough to grasp that she was troubled.
I would hug her then, and she would start to smile. When I snuggled up close, she became all happy.
Mommy told me that I was the center of her universe. I didn’t know what that meant at the time, but it made her happy . . . kind of.
She spent ALL of her time with me.
That made ME very happy.
The person I loved, loved only me.
But there was one thing.
Something I didn’t realize at that time.
. . . . . . . . .
My mommy wasn’t happy.
Not for a long time.
Not since I could remember.
And that was when he came.
He turned my mommy’s life upside down.
Everything that I knew changed. I came to a new place.
Lived, learned, and became someone else.
. . . . . . . .
A new country.
A new continent.
A new language.
A new identity.
But . . . that was okay.
Because my mommy was finally happy.