I went home that night replaying every second, every laugh that wasn’t mine, every glance he never sent my way. It felt like a verdict on my motherhood, like someone had quietly replaced me and forgotten to tell me. But when I finally called my ex, the sound that met me on the other end wasn’t defiance, it was my son’s broken sobs. Between tears, he admitted he hadn’t chosen her instead of me; he’d chosen what he thought would hurt me less.

He believed I was too busy, too tired, too uninterested in school events to be asked. That lie had settled into his small chest like a stone. The next morning, I looked him in the eyes and told him there is no invitation from him that would ever be a burden, no moment too small for my presence. His body softened, his voice cracked, and he whispered that he’d missed me that night, he just didn’t know how to ask for me. We spent the day side by side, not pretending it hadn’t hurt, but gently stitching the truth over the wound: love doesn’t guess, it speaks. And sometimes the bravest thing a parent and child can do is say out loud, “I wanted you there,” and believe, together, that it’s not too late to show up.