« You just left me… alone, » I whispered to the photo.
Michael met my mom, Carina, when I was two. They got married in a quiet and intimate ceremony. I don’t remember the wedding or even life before him.
My earliest memory is sitting on his shoulders at the county fair, one sticky hand gripping a balloon, the other tangled in his hair.
My mom died when I was four — that’s a sentence I’ve lived with my whole life.
« You just left me… alone. »