[hopenpeace]

I grew up in a small village in South Asia. My parents lived far away in another state and couldn’t afford to raise me themselves due to poverty. I know they loved me. I know it broke their hearts to leave me behind. But they had no choice. There was no phone, no internet, not even a landline. And they were too poor to send letters. From age three to ten, I lived with my mom’s cousin—my aunt—and her family. In those seven years, I saw my parents maybe three or four times.

When my mom visited, she was harsh with me. I was mischievous, and in her frustration, she would hit me—or worse, burn me with steel utensils. Sadly, that kind of discipline wasn’t uncommon back then. Even when my parents weren’t around, if I misbehaved or wrote poorly, my aunt would hit me. Her mother would scream at me. It was always those two who made life hard, while my uncle and his father tried their best to protect me. I always held onto one belief: that once I was finally reunited with my mom, things would be different. That she’d love me the way I saw other kids’ moms love them—gently, protectively. Until I was ten, I dreamed of that reunion.

When I was almost eleven, my dream finally came true—we moved to the U.S. and stayed with my mom’s family. For the first time, I thought, I have a real family now. But that was only the beginning of a new kind of loneliness.
In America, my parents worked tirelessly at a local grocery store. My mom would come home, cook, clean, and feed me before heading out again to another job. My dad eventually picked up two, then nearly three jobs. They were trying to build a future for us. After four years, we moved into our own two-bedroom apartment. I was ecstatic—I had a room of my own for the first time. But what I gained in space, I lost in connection. My parents were hardly home. I barely saw them. The silence in that apartment was deafening.

Then came eighth grade. I was about thirteen when my old counselor introduced me to my new one—Mrs. M. She changed my life. At first, it was her red office that caught my attention—red was my favorite color. I instantly felt drawn to her space, and to her.

I still spoke broken English, wore hand-me-downs, and lived without the internet for most of that school year. We had one desktop computer at home, and a bike. That was it. My grades had slipped compared to Asia, but I tried to keep up. Still, I was mostly invisible—except to Mrs. M.
Her office became my safe place. I’d visit her between classes, during lunch, whenever I could. I’d talk to her about everything. Teachers and staff all knew—if I wasn’t in class, I was probably in her office. I adored her. Not in a romantic way—but like she was mine. My mother figures. During puberty, my real mom gave me a pad and a quick explanation. But it was Mrs. M who talked to me through things, who listened, who cared.

I wasn’t the only one who felt connected to her. Her mom would call her at the end of each school day, and if I was there, she’d say, “I’ll call you back, I have my student here.” Sometimes she'd even pass along a “hi” from her mom. I felt… included. Important. Seen.

Near the end of that year, Mrs. M introduced me to D—another girl who spent time in her office. D and I became friends. We were both lonely. I’d also confide in Mrs. M about my crushes at school, and she’d gently tease me like a parent would. That kind of attention meant the world to me.

As graduation neared, I became sad knowing my parents wouldn’t come. They were always working. I told Mrs. M I didn’t even have anyone to take a photo of me, or to buy me a yearbook. She didn’t say much in response, just listened.
On the last day of school, she called me into her office and gave me a surprise: a photo of me on stage at graduation, and a yearbook. She had arranged it all. I was moved, but I told her I didn’t want the picture to remind me of the parents who weren’t there. (Now, in my 30s, I wish I had kept it.)

Then she said something that changed everything: during the summer, I could visit her at the school and hang out. She knew I had a bike and could get there. And I did—often. She gave me little tasks to help pass the time. Once, my bike broke, and she stuffed it into her car and dropped me home—once again, to an empty apartment.

One evening, I called her home number (she had given it to me “just in case”). Her husband answered and made small talk before handing the phone over. I had cut my thumb intentionally, not deeply—just a misguided cry for help. She talked me down, stayed calm, assessed the situation over the phone, and called back the next day to check on me.

Later that summer, she helped me tackle my required reading. Every night she’d call and ask what I read. I’d give her a summary. I hated reading—but for her, I did it. One night I wondered aloud why she didn’t have kids. She dodged the question. But by then, I knew—I saw her as a mother, the one I never had. She once told me she and her mom were going to bake coffee cake together and that she’d teach me someday too. It felt so maternal. So special.
She made sure I finished my reading. She called the night before my first day of high school to calm my nerves and told me to come visit her the next day. So, I did. After surviving my first day in the biggest school in the state, I biked over to the middle school. She hugged me tightly and listened to every word.

She told me we wouldn’t see each other much anymore, but I could email or call her office. When she had a minor accident at home, I gave her a tiny teddy bear with a note. Later, she left a voicemail saying she was touched I remembered she liked teddy bears.

She introduced me to my high school therapist and a community worker—her friend. She told me I could call her office from their offices if needed. But soon, the high school and middle school administrators stepped in. I was told I could no longer call, email, or contact her at all.
I was shattered.

She was my only confidant, my mother figure. I was desperate. I emailed her from D’s account and got in trouble. I felt betrayed by everyone: the therapist, the community person—everyone. That winter, I tried ending my life more than once. I started working at the same grocery store as my dad. Earning my own money felt like a purpose—still, I missed her in everything I did.
When I got my first paycheck, I bought her a Christmas gift. Later, I sent her flowers, a birthday card, and a $25 gift card. That same afternoon, I was summoned to the guidance office. Inside were the assistant principal, therapist, community person, and the school cop. They told me what I did was inappropriate, that I had crossed boundaries. They said if I ever tried again, they’d involve the police.
It felt like someone I loved had died—and I wasn’t even allowed to say goodbye.
I spiraled. I did everything I could to feel close to her, even online stalking. I didn’t understand the consequences she must have faced, too. I only knew I had been abandoned by the one person who made me feel loved. How could I just let go?

For the next four years, I felt like an orphan. Hated. Worthless. I attempted suicide again. Most of my high school memories are therapy sessions and crying in guidance offices. My existence felt like a burden. I once confided in someone, and they said, “Save that love for a boy.” I was furious—this was maternal love, not romantic.

Every milestone—I wished she was there. My license. My first car. I almost called her. The fear of the police held me back. Except for one day—graduation. I called, remembering her promise. She showed up. On crutches. She came for me. That moment is one I’ll treasure forever. We took a picture—I kept it by my bedside for most of my 20s.

I thought maybe now we’d heal together. But she shut down again. I felt abandoned. Again. It wasn’t fair, I didn’t ask for this bond to happen alone. We both had been part of it. Yet I was the only one left to pick up the pieces.

When I returned to her school as a volunteer mentor years later, my anxiety was intense. I wrote about it in my diary. But I didn’t let it stop me. This was my journey now—not hers.
When I left in 2016 for a trip to Asia and a promotion at work, she said she was proud of me. That meant the world. But again, it didn’t last.

The last time I saw her was July 2016. I spotted her car at a parking lot. I couldn’t stop looking for her. A few hours later, I did something impulsive— I showed up at her house. And she didn’t yell. She wasn’t angry. Looking back now, it was inappropriate, maybe even disturbing. But I was just a girl, still looking for her mother, I told her I had seen her car. That I couldn’t help it. That I just wanted to say something after all this time. That I missed her. I didn’t have a clear reason or excuse, only a longing that wouldn’t quiet down. I needed to see her face. I needed to know she was still real.

She came outside, and we sat together in front of her front door. I don’t remember everything I said—I was too nervous—but I tried to talk about how much I missed her, how much it hurt to have been cut off so suddenly. She didn’t respond to that. Instead, she told me about her own pain—that she was divorced now, that her husband had cheated on her. I listened, and I cared. I always cared. But at that moment, I was still bleeding. And she didn’t seem to see that. Or maybe she couldn’t bear to look.
She said she was proud of me and once again asked me if she could hug me.


It’s strange how some people remain with us, even when they’ve long disappeared from our lives. Years have passed since I last saw her—since I sat outside her front door, hoping for answers, for a conversation that never quite came. And yet, she’s never truly left me. Her absence has shaped my life as much as her presence once did, and in quieter ways, she still walks with me.

Between 2016 and 2020, I reached a kind of rock bottom I hadn’t known was possible. Watching my first marriage fall apart was like living a cruel reflection of my own origin story—like mother, like daughter. That unraveling felt even harder than losing her. Because that time, I wasn’t a child; I was a grown woman realizing just how fragile everything I had built could be. And it hurt in a new way: sharp, personal, and deeply lonely.

But slowly, life began to turn. Between 2020 and 2023, I started to learn how to breathe again, to heal—not in giant leaps, but in small, soul-saving moments. And then, I found love again.
This love was different. Softer. Realer. He didn’t flinch when I told him about her—about how she had once been the only reason I made it through each day. He cried with me. Not out of pity, but out of understanding. He saw the little girl inside me and loved her, too. He’s my husband now. We argue like any married couple, and in those moments, I still ache for wish she was here to advise me, to ground me, to just listen. But even when the storms come, he never misses a chance to hold me after. To love me without condition. And somehow, his love repairs wound he never caused.

It’s not the same as a mother loving her grown daughter. I know that. But it’s still healing. It still matters.

Sometimes I wonder what life would look like if she were here. When my husband and I talk about starting a family, I imagine her beside her hand on my belly, her tears when she meets my baby, her voice reading stories to my daughter. I imagine explaining to my child one day that there was once a woman who taught me how to hope again. A woman who didn’t raise me but saved me. And maybe that’s enough.
But not everything we lose can be reclaimed. Some people exist in our lives only as a season, a turning point, a single spark. And I’ve come to accept that her place in my story was never meant to be permanent. She’ll live on in the photo I keep tucked away—no longer displayed but never discarded. She lives in the voicemail I still have saved for the days I feel like I can’t go on. I listen to it when I need to hear her voice the most. And she lives in the line from the graduation card she gave me: “Remember I am always near, even if I may be far away.”

She may never be near in the way I once dreamed, but she’s never been completely gone, either.
And then there’s my tattoo: HOPE. It’s not a tribute to her, not exactly. It’s a word I’ve clung to since before I met her—but she was the one who helped me believe in it again. That tattoo reminds me that even in the hardest moments, there’s always something worth holding onto. She didn’t give me that word, but she gave me reasons to trust it.

So today, although I crave for her more than words can say and feel like no matter how old I will always want her to be part of my life. I’m having to let go—not of love, but of the pain. I don’t want to keep living in the shadows of what never was. I want to step fully into this new chapter, the one I’ve fought for, the one filled with love, family, and healing. There won’t be a formal goodbye. No final conversation. But maybe these words on this paper—is goodbye enough.

If we ever meet again, I hope it’s in peace, without any heaviness. But until then, I’ll carry her memory not as a wound, but as a quiet light that once kept me warm when the world felt cold. And I’ll be okay. I am okay.

[RockyRoad007]

Your story really moved me. I also can relate to deep pain, loneliness and lack of parenting.
It sounds like you're on a deep inner journey of growth, and I wish you the best.

[hopenpeace]

Originally Posted by RockyRoad007

Your story really moved me. I also can relate to deep pain, loneliness and lack of parenting.
It sounds like you're on a deep inner journey of growth, and I wish you the best.

I am saying I am okay but I honestly am not, I am hurting more than any of these words put together. I cry, than I carry on then I cry some more. I smile like I am okay but instead I just want to scream, scream at the universe for being so cruel. But also thanking it in the same breathe for letting me having few things to hold on to in times for comfort. I cry because some days I just want to call the school line or even her cell and say "can we please talk", talk about the weight I have been carrying around for nearly 20 years. But I don't because at this last thing I want to do is come off desperate. But instead I am dying by the day.

Dear @hopenpeace, I was really moved by your story. Thank you for sharing it. It's obviously very much your own story, but I think anyone who's been in therapy and had to sever the ties of that particular kind of deep emotional bond will find something relatable in it.