From the start, Mom had delegated a sizable share of Dylan’s care to her. She’d done a great deal of babysitting, feeding, rocking to sleep, and bathing. Dylan had rewarded her efforts by turning into an adorable curly-haired toddler who’d hugged her, snuggled with her, held her hand, and climbed onto her lap.

He’d been just two years old when she’d left home for high school. Right away, she’d discovered that she missed him far more than any other person. If not for him, she wouldn’t have made the effort to return home on the weekends. By that point, Dad was gone. She and Mom weren’t close. She’d enjoyed a far greater sense of belonging at Clemmons than at the apartment Mom had moved them into for Leah’s final year of middle school.

She’d come home because she’d needed to see Dylan. More often than not, she’d arrive at their apartment complex to find Mom’s car packed and waiting to pull away from the curb. The second after Leah arrived, Mom would depart. She wouldn’t return until two days later—when Leah had to head back to campus.

Leah had been fourteen years old, yet for weekends at a time, she’d been in charge of Dylan. It had been scary. It had also been oddly wonderful, because she’d been free to do whatever she deemed best. They watched Go, Diego, Go! and visited the playground. She read him The Very Hungry Caterpillar a million times. She made them ice cream sundaes topped with whipped cream and caramel sauce and chocolate sprinkles. They roved through the two parks and the one library within walking distance of their building.

She’d thought she’d understood what it meant to be responsible for Dylan. But then, when he was seven, she’d received full custody. As soon as Mom had left for the airport to catch her flight overseas, Leah had realized that no, she hadn’t truly known what it was to be responsible for Dylan. The weight of becoming his 24/7 caregiver had crashed down on her.

The first several days, fear had stalked her. She’d been so overwhelmed that she’d spent hours on her knees after tucking Dylan into bed each night, begging God for strength and mercy.

God had shown up in those dark hours.

Patiently, He’d siphoned His courage into her.

She’d laid every decision before Him that she’d felt incapable of making on her own. Should she move them to Princeton? If not, how should she support Dylan?

Every time, He’d guided her. Sometimes through a sense of rightness that tugged her in a specific direction or a sense of unease that warned her away from another direction. Sometimes through Scripture. Sometimes through a pastor’s message. Sometimes through a conversation with a friend.