“You’re a terrible mom! I want to live with Dad and Jessica!” I was heartbroken. I let her go. But I kept checking in. One day, I saw on social media that she was giving motorcycle rides to her friends—in the middle of a public road. I rushed over. She yelled at me to leave. “Jessica said it’s fine!” she shouted. My heart sank. I left in tears. Hours later, my phone rang. It was Mary-Ann. “Mom… come get me,” she sobbed. She’d crashed the bike. Broken her arm. Her friends ran off. And Jessica? Too busy with a manicure to help. Worse,

she told Mary-Ann to start “getting used to not depending on them”—because she was pregnant and there wouldn’t be space for her anymore. I picked up my daughter from the side of the road, scared and alone. She finally saw who really had her back. “I want to come home,” she whispered. That night, we watched cartoons with bowls of ice cream, just like we used to. And for the first time in a long time, my daughter felt like my little girl again.