We had just returned from dinner when my 2-year-old niece started crying, “Papa! Papa!” Her voice was desperate, her tiny hands reaching out. My daughter, now much older, looked at her cousin with a mix of curiosity and amusement.

Turning to me, she said with a playful glint in her eyes, “Mamma, you must have never gone through this when I was a baby!”

Sensing her subtle jab, I chuckled and replied, “Oh no, my 'gudda' girl. When you were her age, you cried just as much. Maybe even louder!”

She shook her head, her smile was sly and confident. “No, Mamma. I didn’t mean that. I meant I must have never cried for Papa. I’m sure I only cried for you.”

Her cheeky grin lingered as she strolled to her room, leaving me alone with my thoughts.

In that moment, a wave of memories rushed over me. My children had endured so much — emotional turbulence, the fractures of a broken home. Yet, they bore it all with strength far beyond their years. They never blamed me, never sought to wound me with words or resentment. Instead, they offered what I least expected but most needed: unyielding love and warmth.

Some homes may be broken, but not all of them remain so. Sometimes, through resilience and love, the pieces come together again — not perfect, but whole in their own way.

P.S. She was just 5 when I got separated from her father.