I don’t regret a moment of the love. Ava learned to read curled on my lap. Mason built his first erupting volcano with me at the kitchen table. Theo and I planted marigolds that still bloom every spring, and little Lily never fell asleep without my humming. But in the process of becoming their everything, my own life had quietly slipped away. My quilting circle met without me, the walking club strolled on, and the novels on my nightstand gathered dust. My world had shrunk to fit their needs.

The shift—the earthquake that cracked the foundation—happened on a Sunday. Trevor and Kelsey invited me for dinner, a rare occasion. The table was set with unusual care: roast potatoes steaming, green beans glistening with butter, a store-bought cake on the counter. For a foolish moment, I thought it was for me. A thank you. A small acknowledgment of the decade I had given them.

The children were their usual whirlwind of life. Ava, now fourteen, tried to keep her brothers from spilling their juice. Mason tapped an impatient rhythm with his fork, already eyeing the cake. Amid the cheerful chaos, I felt a familiar, bone-deep weariness.