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.