It was just after bath time. He still had that baby powder smell, cheeks all warm and sticky from applesauce. I was humming something dumb—“Twinkle Twinkle,” maybe—and he reached up with those tiny hands, grabbed my thumb like it was all he’d ever need, and said it.
Mama.
And I froze.
Because I’m not. I’m not his mama. I’m just the one who stayed when Eshani left.
Three months. That’s how long it’s been since she walked out. No note, no forwarding address. Just me, a diaper bag, and a blue-eyed toddler with her dimples. I kept telling myself it was temporary. That she’d figure it out, get the help she needed, and come back better.
But I’d be lying if I said I didn’t start to believe this was our life now—me and him, figuring out formula measurements, crying over sleep regressions, making up songs about bath toys.
He called me “Mama” like it was obvious.
Like love had rewritten something in him.
And then tonight… her knock.
I knew it was her before I even opened the door. Same rhythm. Same guilt.
She didn’t say anything at first. Just stood there in a borrowed hoodie, hair longer, face thinner. When she finally spoke, it was soft.
“I’m ready.”
And I didn’t move. Couldn’t.
Because inside, he was still in the tub, probably babbling to the rubber whale I got him. And my heart—my heart was splitting down the middle.
He called me “Mama.”
And she wants to be that again.
He just started crying from the bathroom.
I blinked fast, trying to find words. Any words. She peered past me like she expected him to come running the second he heard her voice. But he didn’t know her anymore. Not really. He’d stopped reaching toward the door when someone knocked weeks ago. And that crushed me more than it should have.
“I just need a minute,” I said, stepping out and closing the door behind me.
We stood in the hall. The smell of curry from Mrs. Patel’s apartment downstairs floated up, familiar and grounding. I crossed my arms over the old hoodie I was wearing—hers, ironically—and looked at her.
“I thought you said you weren’t cut out for this.”
“I wasn’t,” she whispered. “But I went home. Got help. Did the whole program. I’m not perfect, but I’m clean. And I miss him. I miss you too.”
I laughed, not kindly. “You left him in my arms and disappeared, Eshani. And now what? You want to come back like nothing happened?”
She looked down. “I don’t expect that. I just… I want to try.”
From inside, he wailed again. A panicky, sharp cry that said he’d had enough solo time in the tub.
I turned the knob and went back in, leaving the door cracked.
“Hey, hey,” I said, lifting him gently. He clung to me, face pressed to my neck, body shivering despite the warm water. I wrapped him in a towel, held him close.
“You’re okay, baby. I’ve got you.”
Behind me, the door creaked open. Eshani stepped in, eyes wide at how tightly he clung to me. How he buried his face when he caught a glimpse of her. She took a step forward.
“Hi, baby,” she said softly. “It’s Mama.”
He whimpered and turned away.
She flinched like he’d hit her.
After I got him dressed and fed, she asked if she could stay the night. Said she had nowhere else to go.
I hesitated, then nodded. I made up the couch for her, just like I had during those first few months after he was born—before things got bad. Before the bottles under the bed and the disappearing acts. Before the lies.
She watched us as I laid him down in the crib. He reached for me again. Not her.
That night, I barely slept. Her presence in the other room pressed against my chest like a weight I couldn’t shift.
In the morning, she made pancakes. Burnt, but with heart. He didn’t eat them. He stared at her like she was a stranger who knew his name.
And over the next few days, she tried. Really tried. Diaper duty, lullabies, those shaky first steps in front of her made her cry. But he always looked for me first. Always wanted me to kiss his scraped knees, read the bedtime story, sing the sleepy songs.
One afternoon, while he napped, she sat beside me on the fire escape. Spring was just starting to stretch its arms.
“I see it,” she said quietly.
“See what?”
“You and him. The bond. How safe he is with you. How much you love him.”
I didn’t say anything.
She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “I thought coming back would fix everything. That I’d walk in and he’d smile and I’d feel whole again. But… I was gone too long.”
I finally looked at her. “He’s not a reset button for your life.”
“I know.”
A week passed. Then another. Slowly, painfully, he began to smile at her again. Let her feed him. Hold him for short spells.
But at night, he still whispered “Mama” and reached for me.
Then came the twist I hadn’t seen coming.
Eshani asked to meet at the park while he was with my neighbor.
She looked nervous. Palms sweaty, eyes darting.
“I got a job offer,” she said. “In Chennai. My aunt’s company. They’re giving me a fresh start.”
My breath caught. “You’re leaving?”
She nodded. “I thought I came back for him. But I think I came back to give him something. Closure. A goodbye that isn’t a ghosting. And maybe a chance for us to be honest.”
I stared at her.
“You could fight for custody,” I said. “The courts would probably side with you. You’re his biological mother.”
She shook her head. “But you’re his real one.”
My throat closed up.
“I’m not saying I’m never coming back,” she continued. “But I won’t uproot him again. He’s happy. Safe. Loved. And if you’ll let me… I’d like to be his auntie, from afar. Send birthday cards. Visit when it makes sense. But let you be the one.”
Tears welled in my eyes before I could stop them. “You’d really do that?”
She smiled, and for the first time in a long time, it reached her eyes. “I already did.”
She handed me a letter. It was signed and stamped: a voluntary transfer of guardianship. I clutched it like something holy.
When I got home, I watched him sleep, thumb in mouth, blanket kicked off. My boy.
He stirred, rolled toward me in his sleep, and murmured, “Mama.”
That night, I sat down and wrote a thank you card.
To her.
Because sometimes, the most loving thing a mother can do… is let go.
Life doesn’t always follow the path we imagined. But sometimes, love takes root in unexpected soil—and blooms brighter than we thought possible.
If this story touched your heart, please like and share it. You never know who might need to hear that family is built on love—not just blood.
