I wasn’t—because I had never truly left them…

Every day, even when they weren’t with me, my thoughts revolved around Andrew and Dorothy. I knew Dorothy had started humming lullabies before falling asleep. I knew Andrew liked his sandwich with the crusts off and was starting to lose baby teeth. I knew when they were sick, when they laughed, and when their drawings showed up on their dad’s refrigerator. Even from afar, I had never stopped being their mom.

So when Alexander asked me to take them back, I didn’t yell or throw blame. I just asked, “Are you sure?”

He replied coldly, “Yes. I’ve got a new girlfriend now. She doesn’t want kids around all the time.”

And there it was. Not exhaustion. Not stress. Not even a genuine cry for help. Just selfishness, neatly wrapped in a poor excuse.

I hung up the phone, trembling. Not with anger—but with determination.

That night, I called in sick to work and took the train to Valencia. I knocked on the door of the apartment I once called home. Andrew opened it, his eyes lighting up like they hadn’t in months. “Mom?”

“Yes, sweetheart,” I whispered, kneeling to hug him tight.

Inside, the place was a mess—dirty dishes, overflowing laundry, toys scattered everywhere. Dorothy was in the living room, watching cartoons alone with a half-empty bottle of juice tipped on the couch. Her diaper hadn’t been changed in what looked like hours. My heart broke into pieces.

I spent the next day cleaning, feeding them, packing their things. Alexander didn’t say much. He stood at the door as I loaded their bags into a taxi and simply muttered, “You’ll regret this.”

But I didn’t. Not then. Not ever.

We moved back into my little two-bedroom rental in Alcobendas. It wasn’t big, but it was ours. The walls were plain, the floors creaked in the hallway, and the stove needed two matches before it lit—but it was filled with warmth.

The first few weeks were hard. Andrew was quiet. Dorothy was clingy. I had to adjust my work schedule, juggle school pickups, daycare, dinners, late-night fevers… It was chaos. But it was our chaos, and I wouldn’t have traded it for the world.

Then, little by little, things began to click. I found a nearby public school for Andrew where the teachers were kind. I met a woman named Mariam at the community center who offered to babysit for a small fee while I worked the evening shift.

I even started cooking again—nothing fancy, just things that made our home smell like love: lentil stew, tortilla, homemade flan. Andrew started talking more. Dorothy laughed louder.

One night, after tucking them in, I sat on the sofa and cried—not from sadness, but from relief. I had thought I was giving them up for a better life, but I had forgotten something crucial: nothing can replace a parent who truly cares.

Alexander tried to contact me a few times. Sometimes he wanted to see them, sometimes he just sent guilt-ridden messages. But I didn’t reply right away. I wanted to make sure the kids were okay before I opened that door again. And when I did, it was with boundaries.

He gets them on some weekends now. That’s it. I don’t ask for anything more, and I don’t expect anything more.

One Saturday, Andrew asked me, “Mom, why didn’t you fight harder to keep us at the start?”

I paused.

“Honey,” I said, brushing his hair back, “sometimes fighting means stepping aside so your kids can have what they need, even when it hurts. I didn’t leave you. I just gave you what I thought was the best at the time.”

He thought about it for a moment, then simply said, “But now we have the best.”

And that was all I needed.

Years have passed since then.

Dorothy just turned seven. She loves dancing and insists she’s going to be a veterinarian someday. Andrew is twelve and obsessed with astronomy. Every night, he looks out the tiny window of our apartment with a telescope we got secondhand and tells me the names of stars I can’t pronounce.

Me? I’ve been promoted twice. I now lead a small team at work and am studying part-time to get my project management certificate. We’re saving up to move into a place with a little balcony and maybe a view of the hills.

Some days are still hard. I won’t pretend it’s perfect. But it’s ours.

You know, life rarely plays out the way we imagined it. Sometimes it throws you curveballs that leave you bruised and confused. But what matters most isn’t the mistakes others make or the comfort they promise to provide—it’s the strength you find in yourself to do what’s right, even when it hurts.

I don’t regret my decision. Not for a second. It made me stronger. It made my children stronger. It taught me that sometimes, love looks like sacrifice—but real love always comes back around.

So to any parent going through something similar: don’t measure your worth by your income or the size of your home. Your kids don’t need perfection. They need you. Present, loving, consistent you.

And to anyone who feels like they’ve been abandoned, overlooked, or underestimated—remember, your story isn’t over yet. You’re allowed to stumble. What matters is how you rise.

Thanks for reading. If this touched your heart, share it with someone who needs a reminder that love—real, selfless love—is never wasted. 💛

Like this post if you believe that sometimes, the hardest choices are the ones that show the most love.