My name is Dylan, and for most of my life, my mother was less a person and more a sentence.
A brutal, unforgettable sentence.
According to my dad, on the day I was born, she looked at me once, turned to him, and said, “I’m not interested in parenting. I don’t want him. You can do it.”
Then she left.
No dramatic hesitation. No tears. No promises to come back. She didn’t ask for updates. She didn’t send birthday cards. She didn’t pay support. She didn’t even disappear in the way people usually do, with excuses and half-hearted attempts.
