I offered to watch my sister’s kids while she attended a weekend retreat with her husband.
By Saturday afternoon, I was buried in laundry and dishes when her oldest handed me a note.
My stomach clenched-it was addressed to “Mommy,” but clearly meant for me.
I unfolded it and gasped. It said:
“Dear Mommy,
Thank you for always giving me warm hugs, even when you’re tired. I love when you read me stories and make my sandwiches just the way I like. I’m sorry for when I don’t listen, but I love you more than the sky. Please come home soon. I miss you.”
My heart squeezed. I wasn’t their mommy—but in that moment, I felt the weight of what being one truly meant. The tiny fingerprints on the windows, the spilled cereal, the endless “why” questions—they were exhausting, yes, but also… sacred.
I wiped away a tear and looked down at her. “You know I’m not your mom, right?”
She shrugged. “You feel like her.”
That night, after tucking them in and quietly picking up the stray toys, I sat on the couch holding that note, realizing something. My sister didn’t just need a break—she needed appreciation. And maybe… I needed this too.