You Didn't Have To

There's a photo on the stairway wall — you put me in the frame. An extra toothbrush by the sink before I ever stayed the night, my name in marker on a lunch bag in handwriting that wasn't Mom's — but it was right. Saturday pancakes, door cracked open, your car idling outside my school — you never once missed a pickup. I never once said thank you. Nobody signs up for somebody else's storm. You walked in smiling. You didn't have to — but you did. Didn't have to learn the way I take my eggs, or sit through every game in the freezing rain. Nothing made you stay — no blood, no name — you just kept choosing me, kid grudges and all. You didn't have to. You did. I tested you for years, I know it — slammed doors you painted twice. You hung my drawings like they mattered, kept every ugly one alive. The sound I think of when I think of home is your laugh down the hall at night, two voices in the kitchen saying, give her time. Nobody signs up for somebody else's storm. You walked in smiling. You didn't have to — but you did. Didn't have to learn the way I take my eggs, or sit through every game in the freezing rain. Nothing made you stay — no blood, no name — you just kept choosing me, kid grudges and all. You didn't have to. You did. This Mother's Day, no card felt right — they all assumed you had to love me. So here's the truth in three-four time: you're not my second anything. You didn't have to — but you did. Didn't have to learn the way I take my eggs, or sit through every game in the freezing rain. Nothing made you stay — no blood, no name — you just kept choosing me, kid grudges and all. You didn't have to. You did. There's a photo on the stairway wall. I'm so glad you're in the frame.