When my teenage stepdaughter, Anna, came to me that evening, her hands were shaking and her eyes were swollen from crying. She struggled to speak, but eventually shared news that left me stunned and unprepared. Fear and anger took over before empathy could find its way in. I said things I will regret for the rest of my life—harsh words spoken from a place of pride and frustration rather than understanding. I told myself I was protecting order in the house, but in reality, I was pushing away a child who needed support the most. That night ended in silence, heavy and unresolved.
The next morning, Anna was gone. Her room was untouched except for a neatly folded note on the bed saying she needed space and time to figure things out. I convinced myself that distance was for the best. Days turned into weeks, and weeks into months without a single message or call. Life continued on the surface, but something felt hollow. Small reminders—an empty chair at dinner, a forgotten sweater—began to weigh on me. The confidence I once had in my decisions slowly eroded, replaced by quiet regret I refused to acknowledge out loud.
