People often ask me, “Why didn't you fight over your children?”
The answer is actually very simple.
There is a story in the Bible about King Solomon and two women who came before him, both claiming to be the mother of the same living child.
One woman had given birth to a child, but the child died during the night. She then exchanged her dead child for the other woman's living baby.
When both women stood before King Solomon, each claimed that the living child belonged to her.
Solomon, unable to determine immediately who was telling the truth, made a shocking declaration:
“Divide the living child in two and give half to one woman and half to the other.”
The real mother immediately cried out, essentially saying, “No! Give the child to her. Just don't kill him.”
The other woman was willing to accept the division.
That was when Solomon knew.
The woman who was willing to surrender the child in order to save the child's life was the mother.
She understood something that the other woman didn't: sometimes loving your child means being willing to let go of your claim to them if that is what it takes to keep them alive.
That story has always stayed with me.
So when people ask me why I don't fight over my children, I have to tell them the truth.
I already fought.
I fought over Devonte.
I fought over who loved him.
I fought over who his father was.
I fought over who he was as a person.
I fought over his identity and over the truth of who he was.
And as a result of fighting over him, I lost him.
When I lost my son, I didn't just lose my son.
I felt like I lost all of my children.
There is nothing in this world that prepares a mother for burying her child.
The worst thing a parent can experience is to outlive their child.
But losing your child under traumatic circumstances—and having your child die in your presence, in your hands—is a pain that changes something inside of you forever.
After Devonte, I changed.
I began to look at motherhood differently.
I have four children by four different men. Three of my pregnancies were unexpected. And one child was simply a gift from God—not just a gift from God, but a gift from God.
I don't fight over my children anymore.
Not because I don't love them.
Not because I don't care.
And certainly not because I have forgotten that I am their mother.
I don't fight because I believe that if a genuine relationship between me and my children is meant to exist, they will find me.
They know who I am.
They know the mother who loved them.
They know the mother who nourished them.
They know the mother who took care of them.
They know the mother who provided for them.
They know the mother who breastfed them and sacrificed her body to nourish them.
I don't have to explain motherhood to the children I carried.
And I refuse to allow my children to define me by who they want me to be.
Each of my children pulls me in a different direction.
For years, I became exhausted watching them compete over who was my favorite, who I loved more, or who had a more special place in my heart.
The truth is, I never believed in choosing favorites.
I have always tried to balance my love between all of my children.
Yes, my daughter has a special place in my heart because she is my only girl.
But being my only daughter never meant that my sons were loved any less.
Motherhood isn't a competition.
Love isn't a pie that gets smaller when you give a piece to somebody else.
There was enough love for all of them.
And there still is.
But I have learned that sometimes a mother has to stop fighting for people and start allowing people to make their own choices.
I cannot force my children to understand me.
I cannot force them to remember everything I sacrificed.
I cannot force them to see the mother I was.
And I cannot force them to have a relationship with me.
What I can do is remain who I have always been.
Their mother.
I know what I gave.
I know what I sacrificed.
I know what I endured.
And most importantly, God knows.
So if you ask me today why I don't fight over my children, don't mistake my silence for a lack of love.
Sometimes the greatest act of love is knowing when to stop fighting.
King Solomon understood that.
The real mother wasn't the woman who demanded possession of the child.
She was the woman willing to give up the child to save the child.
And maybe that's the lesson I learned the hardest way possible:
I would rather lose the relationship than lose another child.
I have already experienced that kind of loss.
I will not willingly experience it again.
My children know where I am.
They know who I am.
They know I love them.
And if one day they decide they want to come home to their mother, the door will always be open.
