My parents left when I was ten.
There was no warning, no explanation that made sense to a child. One day they were there, arguing about money and plans, about my sister’s school and their future. The next, I was being told this was “temporary.” That word followed me for years like a lie that refused to age.
Temporary never felt temporary.
I learned early how quiet a house becomes when the people who are supposed to love you unconditionally decide you’re optional. Phone calls stopped. Birthdays passed. Holidays came and went without cards, without excuses, without voices. I watched other kids complain about their parents, and I learned not to say anything at all.
I wasn’t angry at first. I was hopeful.
Children are good at that. We believe adults will come back when they realize their mistake. I kept my bag packed longer than I’d like to admit, just in case they showed up unexpectedly and said they were ready now.
They never did.
Instead, I grew up hearing about my sister. How well she was doing. The opportunities she had. The plans they were proud of. Somewhere along the way, I realized a quiet truth: they hadn’t lost me. They had chosen her.
They chose her future and erased my childhood.
What they called “temporary” turned into years of silence. Nine years without parents doesn’t just hurt—it reshapes you. It teaches you self-reliance before you’re ready. It teaches you how to lower your expectations so disappointment hurts less. It teaches you how to grieve people who are still alive.
I learned to stop waiting.
I built a life without them—brick by brick, mistake by mistake. I paid my own way. I made my own family out of friends who stayed. I learned what love looks like when it’s consistent, not convenient.
And just when I no longer needed anything from them, they came back.
Not with remorse. Not with apologies. Not even with shame.
They came back when it suited them.
They spoke as if time had paused, as if they could simply step back into the role they abandoned. They expected gratitude for showing up late, forgiveness without accountability, closeness without effort.
They wanted access, not repair.
In that moment, something inside me finally settled. I understood that I had already lost my parents years ago. And they had lost their daughter long before that.
So when I looked at them and asked, “Do I know you?” it wasn’t said to hurt them. It wasn’t said to punish them.
It was the truth.
There was no apology. Only entitlement. Only the expectation that blood alone should erase years of absence.
But I am not ten anymore.
I don’t wait by the door. I don’t pack bags for people who leave. I don’t mistake silence for love.
I survived their absence.
And I no longer need their return.
