For years, I kept telling myself the same thing.
He’s just a baby.
Then…
He’s just a toddler.
After that…
He’s only five.
He’s only seven.
He’s only eight.
Every birthday, I convinced myself that the phase would pass.
That Lucas would slowly become more independent.
That he’d stop reaching for Jude every waking moment.
That one day I’d finally have my husband back.
Instead…
Lucas turned ten.
And somehow…
Nothing had changed.
If anything…
It had become worse.
⸻
I loved my son.
God knew I loved that boy.
I’d never missed a football match.
Never forgotten a birthday.
Never skipped a school event.
Every science fair.
Every award ceremony.
Every swimming competition.
Every parent meeting.
If Lucas needed me…
I was there.
Without question.
But…
Whenever he had a c
