Just Us: A Letter to My Daughters

There’s something sacred about the bond formed in quiet houses—when it’s just a mother and her children learning how to survive, how to grow, how to be a family without a blueprint.

My youngest two daughters didn’t grow up with big family dinners or holidays filled with relatives from both sides. Their dad, Anthony, wasn’t a Triplett by birth, nor by adoption. And as for me, I have never known my paternal side. So, what we built together didn’t come from tradition. It came from strength. From grit. From love that didn’t need a last name to be real.

They came home to me.

That was the constant. That was the warmth. That was the echo in the hallway, the steady presence after school, the one who held the line even when everything else felt uncertain. I can’t give them stories about family reunions or elders passing down heirlooms. But I can say this:

They were raised in the presence of a strong woman, and they became strong women, too.

I believe they learned how to keep going when things fall apart. I believe they understand loyalty, even when it’s hard. I believe they carry grace and grit in equal measure, not because they were surrounded by it, but because they watched it show up in everyday ways. In me.

I hope when they think of home, they remember my hands, busy, tired, but always reaching for them. I hope they know I did my best, even when my best was barely enough. I hope they feel pride in what we built from nothing.

To my girls, especially my youngest two:

We were just us. And we were more than enough.

With love, always,

Mom