I Chose the Easier Parent
When my parents divorced, the judge said I could choose where to live. I was twelve, and I chose comfort.
My dad had the big house, the yard, the money for anything I wanted.
My mom lived in a tiny room behind a grocery store, working double shifts.
She didn’t argue. She just smiled and said her door would always be open.
As the years passed, she became a voice on the phone, a hug twice a year, gifts wrapped in reused boxes.
On my fifteenth birthday, she brought me a crocheted sweater. Cream-colored. Uneven. Homemade.
I thanked her without looking at her.
After she left, I shoved it in a drawer.
Years later, while cleaning, I found it again. Guilt pricked at me, so I gave it to my elderly neighbor who loved handmade things.
She called me back within minutes.
“There’s something in the pocket.”
Inside was an envelope with my name in my mom’s soft handwriting—and a savings book.
Her note said she was sorry she couldn’t give me more, so she worked extra hours and saved what she could for my future.
The deposits were tiny.
But they never stopped.
I stood there and cried.
I had chosen comfort.
But she had chosen me—every day, in dollars and stitches, without ever asking for credit.
And I finally understood what love really costs.
