Avery came into the world looking like an angel — soft features, perfect skin, the kind of baby strangers gasp over. I took one look at her and thought, Okay, I can do this. I can raise her to know she’s special.
Her father, Al, took one look and thought, Damn it, it’s a girl. He actually accused me of “having a daughter just to spite him,” as if I was backstage choosing genders like I was ordering off a menu. He left the hospital and went back to work, because apparently disappointment is exhausting.
As she grew, Avery became this tiny, unstoppable force. She could get anything she wanted with one well‑timed eyelash flutter. She was gorgeous, brilliant, magnetic — and somehow convinced she was ugly. Nothing I said could break through that wall.
She helped with her younger brother like she’d been born with a built‑in caretaker gene. Rowan idolized her. Honestly, I don’t think I would’ve survived those years without her.
But then came the pushback. Hair? Not brushing it. Room? Not cleaning it. Dinner? Not eating it. She, Ben and Rowan teamed up like a tiny domestic terrorist organization, and I was the hostage negotiator with no training.
School was easy for her — straight A’s without trying — but life wasn’t. She was being bullied, and the sadness seeped into everything. One morning, after yet another refusal to get on the bus, I snapped and dragged her down the stairs by her arm. I still hate that memory. Every day was another battle.
Then she started cutting. Deep. Often. Anything sharp became a weapon against herself. She said she wanted to “feel something.” I didn’t understand. I didn’t know how to help. Therapy didn’t help either — she was too smart, too charming, too good at pretending.
The bullying got so bad I moved her to an alternative school, hoping freedom would help. Instead, she discovered drugs — paid for with my credit card. Who knew dealers accepted Visa?
Her grades stayed perfect, even though she barely attended class. The principal called her a “bad‑ass genius.” Cute, until she started overdosing. Sixteen attempts. Ten hospitals. A revolving door of crisis.
The day a neighbor called to say she was lying in the road waiting for a car to hit her… that was my breaking point. I wasn’t playing anymore.
Meanwhile, Ben was having his own crises. I was always juggling one kid in the hospital and one kid melting down at home. No parent is built for that. I certainly wasn’t.
And here’s the part that still breaks me: She had talent pouring out of her — flute, cheerleading, soccer, art. She had everything. But she felt like nothing. She missed having a father. She saw every man I dated as a possible replacement. Nothing I did was enough. I couldn’t fix her broken.
Somehow she graduated. Somehow she made it to college. Then came the sorority hazing — the crying phone calls, the awful things they made her do. I couldn’t stop it. She wanted to belong. She wanted a place to fit. And eventually, she found one.
She was my beautiful disaster. And over the years, she grew into someone she could finally live with.
She has a good life now — a relationship she thrives in, a job she loves, her own apartment. But she still holds me responsible for the years that weren’t so good.
I hope someday she’ll come back to me. I’m still here. I always was.
Still holding my breath waiting to be her mom again,
K.
I'm Still Here. Somehow... 