They counted
days.
Flights.
Phone calls.
Visits.
Summer vacations.
Bedrooms.
Soccer lessons.
School registrations.
They counted everything
that fit inside a file.
No one counted
the panic attacks,
the grocery lists,
the laundry,
the birthdays planned anyway,
the tears hidden
behind bathroom doors,
or the thousand invisible things
a mother carries
without ever writing them down.
Some things
don’t become evidence.
They become
the person
you are.
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