The abandonment left wounds that therapy could only partially heal. For years, I would wake up in the middle of the night convinced I had heard the front door open, that they had returned to explain it was all a terrible mistake. I wrote letters I never sent because I had no address to send them to. I scanned crowds in shopping malls, sure I had glimpsed my mother’s profile or my father’s distinctive walk.

The therapist Aunt Vivien hired, Dr. Freeman, helped me understand that their leaving had nothing to do with me. “Adults make adult decisions based on adult problems,” she would say. “Children blame themselves because it gives them a sense of control. If it was your fault, you could fix it. But this was never yours to fix, Elaine.”

Logical words that my heart refused to accept for many years.

As time passed, my desperate search slowed. By my eighteenth birthday, I had stopped looking back every time someone called my name in public places. By twenty, I had stopped drafting imaginary conversations for our reunion. By twenty-five, I had accepted that the parents I knew were effectively gone forever.

Through it all, Aunt Vivien remained— not warm, not affectionate, but dependable, rock solid. She never once broke a promise, never missed an appointment, never failed to provide what I needed. It was a different kind of love than what I had lost, but it was real.