By the time I turned 18, I was working part-time at a local café to save for college. It was a typical busy afternoon when the door chimed and a woman walked in. She had the same green eyes I saw in the mirror every day, and something about her presence made my heart pound. She approached the counter slowly, her hands trembling. “Hi… I’m your mother,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

I froze, unable to speak. She explained that she had left because she was struggling with addiction and believed she couldn’t give me the safe, stable life I deserved. Over the years, she had gone through rehab and worked hard to change, and now she wanted a chance to make things right.