they always say a home is broken
when someone leaves.
but the ones that stay—
silent, untouched, decaying from the inside—
those are the ones that terrify me.
staying for the kids.
staying for the convenience.
staying because splitting would finally reveal the truth.
some homes should crack.
some are begging to crack.
because sometimes the safest thing in the world
is a mother and a baby,
on their own,
making something holy out of ash.
i’ve felt more like a daughter
in the hugs and the tears that were wiped
by someone who found me later in life
than i ever did with the one who helped make me.
so no,
i don’t hesitate at the idea of building sideways.
love doesn’t require blood.
it just needs a pulse.
i’ve seen the light change on someone’s face
when they meet a child that isn’t theirs—
and feel everything click into place anyway.
because true love doesn’t live exclusively in biology.
it lives in being there.
it lives in the shoes you tie,
the bikes you help them ride,
the instinct to protect.
i’m not afraid of bunk beds and blended holidays.
of step-siblings and spare toothbrushes in someone else’s house.
i’m not afraid of loving children i didn’t create,
or being loved by people who arrived later and still became family.
that isn’t broken.
that’s brave.
That is, without a doubt,
the essence of true love—
not merely a sense of obligation.
It’s a conscious choice to share and amplify love,
reaching out to embrace even more people in its security.
i’ve always wanted that.
a home that full.
so this is the family i built—
no blueprint,
just the child i carried out of a storm.
and even if it’s quieter than i pictured—
even if it’s just us—
it’s still a home.
and it’s not broken.
but the door?
it stays open.
not for chaos.
not for the ghosts, not for the shallow kind of love.
but for the kind of love that stays.
the kind that shows up.
the kind that remembers.
because they’ll call this a broken home—
but there’s nothing broken
about a mother, a baby, and a dog
waking up in peace
with nothing to recover from.
it’s truthfully holy.
but i always welcome more.
P.S.
(and yes,
she would’ve been a girl.
and yes,
they all would’ve been sisters.
and yes,
we can still have bunk beds.)