My biological mom walked out on me when I was just a baby. No explanations, no goodbyes—just gone. My dad raised me alone, and he did an incredible job. He was my rock, my protector, my everything. For years, I didn’t even know the full story. I just knew she wasn’t there. And when I finally learned the truth—that she left because she “wasn’t ready”—I felt a rage I couldn’t shake. How do you forgive someone who abandoned you before you could even speak? I didn’t want closure. I wanted distance.
Now she’s back. Not with flowers or apologies, but with expectations. She wants to be part of my life again, like nothing happened. My dad, ever the peacemaker, keeps urging me to give her a chance. He says people change, that forgiveness is healing. But I’m not ready. I don’t owe her a relationship just because we share DNA. She missed every milestone, every heartbreak, every triumph. She wasn’t there when I needed a mom. And now that I don’t need one, she wants in.
I’ve tried to be civil. I’ve listened to her talk about her regrets, her therapy, her growth. But none of it erases the years of silence. None of it fills the void she left. I’m not cruel—I just don’t want to pretend. My dad says I’m being stubborn, that I’ll regret this someday. But I think he’s projecting. He forgave her long ago, maybe because he had to. I don’t. I get to choose who I let into my life. And right now, she’s not on the list.
It’s hard, because I see how much my dad wants us to reconcile. He’s caught in the middle, trying to bridge a gap that feels unbridgeable. I love him for that, but I wish he’d stop pushing. I wish he’d understand that forgiveness isn’t a switch you flip—it’s a process. And sometimes, it’s a process that never ends. I’m not angry all the time. I’m just guarded. I’ve built walls to protect myself, and I’m not ready to tear them down for someone who helped build them.
She sends me messages now. Birthday wishes, random check-ins, even memes. It’s surreal. Like she’s trying to be the mom she never was, through emojis and awkward texts. I don’t respond. Not because I want to hurt her, but because I don’t know how to feel. There’s no manual for this. No guidebook for reconnecting with someone who disappeared. I’m navigating blind, and every step feels like betrayal—of myself, of my memories, of the pain I’ve carried for so long.
Sometimes I wonder what life would’ve been like if she’d stayed. Would I be softer? More trusting? Would I have fewer scars? But those thoughts don’t lead anywhere. They’re just echoes of a life I never had. I’ve made peace with my story, even if it’s messy. I’ve found love, support, and strength in places she never touched. And that’s enough. I don’t need her to rewrite the past. I just need her to respect the present.
I’m not saying I’ll never forgive her. Maybe one day, the anger will fade and the walls will crumble. Maybe I’ll look at her and see more than the woman who left. But that day isn’t today. And it won’t come just because someone else wants it to. Forgiveness is mine to give, not theirs to demand. Until then, I’ll keep living my truth, even if it’s uncomfortable for others.
I’m not heartless. I’m healing. I’m not bitter. I’m boundaried. And if that makes me the villain in her redemption arc, so be it. I didn’t choose this story—but I get to choose how it ends. And right now, the ending doesn’t include her.
