Literary Mama writing about the many faces of motherhood
After the Divorce


The porcelain dolls at Christmas
that you set, painted, and sewed
were saying, I’m sorry.

The 4-hour trips from Hailey to Logan
and back again every other weekend
were saying, I’m sorry.

The cupboards full of our favorite food
(you couldn’t afford),
all the Mountain Dew, Funyuns,
were saying, I’m sorry.

The balloons, jellybeans, flowers.
The perfume, peach pie, hours
of saying, I’m sorry, so, so sorry.

All fire in your bones,
marrowed with regret.
We loved you in spite of this.

Dayna Patterson thinks third graders are wonderful, old enough to be independent, young enough not to have hit puberty’s wall. It is a sweet, sweet spot she’ll be sorry to relinquish as her daughters grow.

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