My little one brought me a photo album she found in the bottom of the closet. She curled up beside me and opened it. We snuggled on the couch while we slowly flipped the pages.
She stopped at an old picture of me, standing against a car, looking forlorn. “What’s wrong with you, Mom? You look so sad.”
I looked at the picture and wondered how it ended up in a recent photo album. A flood of memories hit me hard. “I was sad. I wanted to be a mom so bad. I lived in sadness because it took so long. Those were my wasted years,” I said, surprised at how bitter my words sounded.
“What does that mean? Wasted?” she asked.
I wished I could take back the words. “Honey, I just couldn’t see very far in front of me. I sort of lived out of focus.”
She thought about my answer and flipped the page to a more recent picture of the two of us, laughing.
“Well, maybe there’s no such thing as wasted years.”
Her words hit me hard. There are no wasted years.