I’m 33, raising two little girls on my own. They’re five and seven, and they believe in Santa with absolute conviction.
They scribble letters full of backward S’s and lopsided hearts. They debate which cookies he prefers. They take the whole thing very seriously.
Their father left three years ago.
Not with a fight or a goodbye—just a gradual disappearance. Fewer messages. Missed calls. Cancelled visits. Until one day, I noticed he hadn’t asked about the girls in weeks.
Now it’s just us.
I work at a hospital.
I plan grocery trips like a high-stakes mission.
I know which store has the lowest milk prices, which morning bread gets discounted, and how to stretch one pack of ground beef across three dinners.
I’ve learned how to fix clogged drains, flip breakers back on, and coax our ancient heater into working.
