If you’d asked me a year ago, I would’ve said my daughter, Nina, and I were close. She visited often, called just to chat, and left traces of herself in my home—her laughter, her favorite mug, even a noodle bowl.

Then, she stopped coming.

At first, it was one missed birthday. Then Thanksgiving. Then Christmas. The excuses piled up—work, exhaustion, plans with her boyfriend, Max.

I kept wondering: What went wrong?

Then one afternoon, I ran into her at the store. She looked startled, holding groceries like a shield. I asked her gently, “What’s going on?”

Outside, she finally confessed.

“It’s Richard,” she said—my partner of six years. “He found my old diary… and read it aloud. Mocked me. Especially the part about my miscarriage.”

My heart broke.

She hadn’t told me because she didn’t want to make me choose.

I’d already chosen, unknowingly—and it had cost me my daughter.

That night, after Richard slept, I packed a bag. By sunrise, I’d filed for divorce.

Two weeks later, I knocked on Nina’s door with pie and a trembling apology. “I left him,” I said. “For you. For me.”

Her eyes welled. “I missed you, Mom.”

Weeks passed. She came over again—brought a rosemary plant and a candle labeled “clean slate.” We baked. We laughed.

Now, we have Sunday dinners, Wednesday takeout, and a promise to never let silence sit between us again.

I chose peace. I chose my daughter.

And in doing so, I finally chose myself.