I tried my best to give you the picture-perfect family life.

Everyone living under the same roof,

Mommy and Daddy as husband and wife.

Now I’ve made you a statistic.

Another child from a broken home.

Years to come, shuffling back and forth,

Missing the parent who’s left alone.

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I don’t know who it will be worse for . . . 

Our goodnight hugs only half the nights.

I promise when you’re with me, though,

I’m going to hold onto you extra tight.

I tell you all the things you’ll gain—

Double the toys, Santa coming twice.

Maybe I’m sugar-coating it,

But won’t having two homes be nice?

Yet my words don’t ease your worries—

In the way a mother’s usually do.

There’s no Band-Aid for your inner hurt.

If there was, maybe I’d need it, too.

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I can only hope you’ll adjust.

And this imperfect new life will be OK.

Broken home doesn’t mean broken child . . . 

That’s what I’ll tell myself every day.