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When I awake in the wee hours of that unforgettable, early winter morning, I am overcome with a deep sorrow that pierces the very walls of my heart. Lonely and alone, I lay there in the quiet darkness of my bedroom, longing to secretly tip-toe into their bedrooms, peak at them while they peacefully sleep, gently pull the blankets back up over them, and softly kiss their foreheads, just as I've always done since they were born 11 and 12 years ago. My longing remains unanswered as I remind myself, they aren't here with me. They lay in peaceful slumber, 5 miles up the road at their fathers house. The same house we all shared as a family less than 1 year ago.

They had wanted to stay with him from the beginning, but as mothers will instinctively do, I refused their repeated requests for 7 months, until one day I realized their sweet, innocent faces were no longer painted with beautiful, bright smiles. Instead, their gleeful grins had slowly been replaced with a sadness that spoke volumes of confusion, fear and longing.

Longing to be with their dad more often. I knew if I didn't at least give them the chance to live with their father, they would grow to resent me for it. When I'd told them I was going to move out, so dad could move back in, life seemed to ebb back into my youngest, and his brilliant smile returned home again. My oldest tried to tame his smile, for fear I would be hurt by the happiness he no doubt felt. They hugged me tight and showered me with thank you's. After months of soul searching, I'd conceded to their wishes, knowing in my heart it was the best for them. It was, however, the beginning of a torturous journey for me.

The tears gush forth from my eyes, originating from the depths of my soul, and carry with them a despair I've never know before. Over my cheeks they flow, past my ears, forming a warm pool of moisture on the pillow beneath my still groggy head. As I rise from my bed, with no clear destination in mind, I try to visualize them in my minds eye.

It brings me only more heartache as I realize, for the first time, I am unable to reach out and touch my boys. The hopelessness suddenly leaves and I'm assaulted by a suffocating anxiety attack, as I walk through my, silent, desolate living room.

I rush into the kitchen and desperately throw open the window, in an attempt to breathe. It does no good and the attack rages on. I tear off my winter nightgown, desperately trying to breathe, and take off my watch, which feels like it's eating into my flesh. I try to take off my rings, but my fingers are swollen from sleep. I frantically pull and tug at them, to no avail and then give up. The rings win.

I love the winter, but the snow covered trees and the moonlight glistening on the pond outside my window bring me no joy, as I spot the snowman they'd built two days before, now standing slightly cockeyed on the back lawn. The smell of baked scrod, from my super, still lingers in the air, as I sit there on the kitchen floor, leaning out the tall window of my new home. After countless minutes the attack subsides and I can breath again, but it only ushers back the pain.

If I'd known how painful it would be, I fear I may never have granted their wish. I take a few swigs from the orange juice container in my refrigerator, and head back to my bedroom, knowing sleep is still hours away. As I climb under the now cold blankets, I think to myself how I had their best interests in mind, when I'd stayed so long ago, and how ironic it is that I have there best interest in mind now, as I try to leave.

I lay there in the deafening silence for an eternity, one I wish never to visit again, doubting myself and wondering if they're still smiling.

Learn more about this author, Cyndi Li.
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