Where Is Love?

Her fingertips moved the curtain ever so slightly. She must see him, but he must not see her. It was best this way. Best for him. Maybe for her.

She had made the decision yesterday when she peeled his hands from around her neck and forced him kicking and wriggling into the arms of his substitute mommy. Her lunch break had all but ticked away, and she could not be a minute late for the assembly line. As she rushed off with her son’s escalating screams chasing her, she decided she would not put her little tyke through this again.

Intellectually, she accepted she could not make a two-year-old understand why she had to leave him or believe that his mother’s heart ached to stay in the sandbox. No. She would deny herself holding him and squeezing him and kissing him in the midday interlude. The neighborhood babysitter quickly agreed to faithfully bring him outside at this hour so that she could watch her son unseen from the window. Childhood Sandbox

She allowed herself a twinge of regret that her husband could not see their toddler pouring a bucket of sand over his head. But she thought he would be pleased with his little man when he saw him for the first time. She also thought he would be happy she had kept up the mortgage payments when … if he came home from the war.

My observation:  Deep, abiding love has its hidden parts. What do you see?

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