I remember early on, asking big questions about my life.  Why don’t I live with a mom and a dad? Was it my fault that they split up?  Did he leave us because of me? I didn’t necessarily feel anger or resentment, just confusion.  I wanted him to come back, yet I had accepted the realization that this probably wouldn’t happen. I’d given up that hope a long time ago. As financial struggles became our reality, my mom knew we couldn’t live on our own. It was necessary that we move in with my grandparents and situate our new lives there. So that’s what we did.

Ever since I was young, I knew not to expect fancy things. I was fully aware that my family tried their hardest to make financial ends meet.

Over time our situation digressed. A year had passed and I’d turned seven. I had finally begun to adjust to this new life. Then one morning I remember waking up to my mom being gone. Days passed, and I waited for her to come back, but she didn’t. At that point my grandparents took me on as their child. Now I wasn’t just questioning why my dad left, but why my mom did too. I had to accept that I was never going to have the picture-perfect family. I had to accept the fact that this was my life now.

I continued to want my family to return. I wondered how my life would change if they did. Would I be happier? I hoped for normalcy, whatever that was. I wanted to ask why they’d left, to relieve the burden from my shoulders, to assure myself that it wasn’t something I’d done. These thoughts slowly turned into guilt, as I blamed myself for everything. Was I that terrible of a daughter to where my own parents couldn’t be with me?

Living with my grandparents became my norm, as they slowly filled the place of my mom and dad.  One day I decided to ask a risky question. My heart pounded as the words poured out. Do you know where my parents are? My grandma froze with a blank look on her face and a simple “No.” Just the word no, and she walked away. 

The next day felt odd, I awoke hearing someone in the hallway, talking with my grandparents. It sounded like a familiar voice, but I couldn’t put my finger on it. I walked hesitantly down the stairs, still in my pajamas, to see a woman with black hair. My grandma looked at me with tears falling down her face. “There she is,” my grandma said.

The woman turned toward me still standing on the staircase. Our eyes met. It was my mom.

Though it had been well over a year, my mom placed herself back in our lives, acting as though it’d been a matter of days since she’d shared our home. I didn’t feel resentment. I was only happy that she’d returned.

Despite the chaos, I realized soon after that the family I’d been looking for was right in front of me. No matter how messy it may have been, there was always someone there who loved and cared for me. And that was my perfect family.