Yet something felt off. She was always texting, never shared about her life, and took photos of us that I never saw again.

One night, her phone buzzed with a message from a man named Richard: “Can’t wait to meet your daughter.”

I looked at the conversation and noticed she’d sent him our dinner photo, pretending we were close.

Turns out, he had kids and wanted a family woman.

My mom wasn’t here for me—she was using me to impress a new man.

When she came out of the bathroom, I gave her that old shoebox of drawings. “I made these after you left,” I said.

She burst out tears, hugged me, and promised she’d never disappear again.

But I didn’t hug her back—and she didn’t even notice.

The next morning, she left—without the shoebox.

That said it all.

Some days later, I threw the box away, not out of anger, but freedom.

Grandma once told me, “You’re strong and worthy, Alexa. Don’t forget that.”

Now I finally believe her.

I’m no longer that abandoned little girl.

My mom chose someone else once, and she did it again.

But this time, I’m choosing me.