I’m a single mother, and when I told my mom I wanted to start dating again, she said something that left me in shock.

My name is Maren Blake.

I’m 33 years old, a full-time nurse, and a single mother to my 7-year-old daughter, Ivy.

Life didn’t turn out exactly as I had imagined, but I’ve learned how to survive—even when that meant doing everything on my own.

I left Ivy’s father when she was just one year old. At first, he seemed charming, but he quickly became emotionally abusive. By the time I realized I was drowning, I gathered the strength and walked away. My mom, Lorraine, applauded me that day.

“Good girl,” she said. “You deserve better.”

For years, that “better” meant nothing more than peace. I poured everything I had into Ivy, into my work, into the house. I kept telling myself that dating could wait. One day, maybe, when I wasn’t so exhausted… when I could trust someone again.

But on a rainy Thursday night, as I folded laundry and watched Ivy laugh at cartoons, I felt something I had been ignoring for a long time: loneliness. That deep, aching kind of loneliness no self-help book or scented candle can cure.

The next morning, I found the courage to call my mom.

“Mom,” I said, half-laughing, “I think I’m ready to date again.”

Silence on the other end.

Not the awkward kind—but the kind that slowly freezes.

Then she said, “I think it’s a mistake.”

I blinked. “What?”

“You’ve come so far,” she said. “Why go back to something that nearly destroyed you?”

I waited, expecting some encouragement. But then she said something that made my whole body tense.

“I’m not saying this to be mean, Maren, but women like us—single mothers—don’t get fairytale endings. We get leftovers. And you already have a child. You don’t need a man complicating her life.”

It felt like a stab to the chest.

“‘Women like us’?” I repeated, stunned. “What does that even mean?”

“It means you’ve already played your hand,” she said. “Men don’t line up to date women with baggage. Especially ones who are tired, overwhelmed… and have a kid.”

I felt sick to my stomach.

“That’s what you think I am? Baggage?”

“Not me,” she replied. “It’s what the world thinks. I’m just being honest.”

I hung up without another word. And for days, her words echoed in my mind:

Leftovers.
Baggage.
You’ve already played your hand.

I couldn’t help but wonder where all that bitterness came from. So I did something I hadn’t done in years—I invited my aunt Gina, my mom’s sister, to lunch. Over coffee and grilled sandwiches, I broke down.

“She made it sound like single moms are damaged goods. Like I should just accept being alone.”

Gina looked at me, eyes full of something like guilt, and gently said, “She’s projecting.”

“Projecting what?”

Gina looked down, stirring her straw. Then she said, “Before she met your father, your mom was also a single mother. She had a baby at nineteen. The father disappeared. She gave the child up for adoption. She never spoke about it again. Then she met your dad at twenty-five. He never knew.”

My jaw dropped.

“I have a sister?”

“You had one,” Gina said carefully. “She passed away a few years ago. Cancer.”

My mother—so proud, so rigid—had hidden a whole child. A loss. A trauma I never knew.

And then I understood.

She didn’t think I couldn’t be loved. She thought she didn’t deserve to be loved—and never forgave herself for trying. That pain swallowed her, and she turned it into armor.

But I wouldn’t do the same. I wouldn’t wear my wounds like shackles.

The next week, I downloaded a dating app. Not because I was desperate—but because I finally believed I deserved to be seen. Not just as a mother—but as a woman.

I met someone a few weeks later. Theo. Divorced, no kids, a high school English teacher.

On our third date, I told him about Ivy.

He smiled and said, “Sounds like she’s lucky to have you.”

It wasn’t a fairytale.

But it was real.

Eventually, I called my mom again.

I told her about Theo. Told her I didn’t need her approval—but I hoped that one day, she’d understand I was trying to build something she never allowed herself to have.

She didn’t say much. But I could hear the regret in her silence.

Moral of the story?
Your past doesn’t define your worth.
Being a single mom isn’t a weakness—it’s strength.
And love isn’t only for those with perfect timing.
It’s for the brave.
The broken.
The ones who dare to rebuild.

Never let someone else’s fear keep you from living your future.

🏛️ Compensation and Legal Claims: Know Your Rights
If you’ve suffered damage—physical, emotional, or financial—you may be entitled to compensation. Whether due to medical error, accident, defective products, or labor injustice, the law is on your side. Don’t stay silent. Seek guidance and fight for your rights.