The Man Who Stayed
My dad raised me alone.
Every fever.
Every scraped knee.
Every late-night run for school supplies.
He worked maintenance during the week and bartended on weekends. He came home exhausted, hands blistered, back aching — and never complained.
What stayed with me most?
He never spoke badly about her.
Not once.
When I asked why she left, he said:
“Sometimes people aren’t ready. That doesn’t mean they’re evil. It just means they made a choice.”
Then he added:
“I just love you more than I hate what she did.”
That sentence raised me.
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