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\u2019s profile or my father\u2019s distinctive walk.<\/p>\n
The therapist Aunt Vivien hired, Dr. Freeman, helped me understand that their leaving had nothing to do with me.\u00a0\u201cAdults make adult decisions based on adult problems,\u201d<\/em>\u00a0she would say.\u00a0\u201cChildren 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.\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n
Logical words that my heart refused to accept for many years.<\/p>\n
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.<\/p>\n
Through it all, Aunt Vivien remained\u2014 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.<\/p>\n
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