- So I call my story Lucky Charms.

It was my first Mother's Day as a single mom.

I was only a couple of months into this new role, one that came without instructions, yet somehow required me to do everything that I had done before, but now times two.

Mother's Day two would have to be redefined.

I knew it would not have come with flowers or jewelry or a fancy meal.

I told myself it would just be another day.

What I didn't know was that in another part of the house, my oldest son, Quincy, who was seven, was already at work.

He had gathered his siblings, Jolie and Owen, and he was forming a plan.

Quincy has always had a tender heart.

When he was just two, he would wake up from his naps and quietly slip into another room to let me sleep because I was pregnant with his younger sister.

He was a protector even then.

He was a gentle older brother who never demanded respect, but he earned it through his kindness.

And this Mother's Day, he decided he would not let disappointment slip into his mom's heart.

He would make it special.

When the three of them came into my room that morning, they weren't their usual loud, boisterous, giggling selves.

They were focused.

Three pairs of beautiful bright brown eyes looked at me with anticipation.

They gathered like a small parade.

Jolie and Owen carried drawings, bright crayon flowers colored from their little... They grew from their little hands.

There were flowers that were carefully colored and a little unevenly cut with kid scissors.

The kind of flowers that you'd never find in a shop, the kind that never fade.

Now Quincy, he carried a tray.

On it sat toast, generously buttered, and it wasn't warm anymore.

It was a little too toasty.

And each slice had three lucky charms.

Three.

Placed with care, maybe I thought it was for each one of them.

They had made me breakfast in bed.

It wasn't the gourmet brunch that I know some of my other moms were enjoying right at that moment, but it was the most thoughtful meal I had ever received because it wasn't about the toast.

It was about a little boy who sensed the gap, who felt the shift in our family, and instead of shrinking from it, he stepped into it.

He stepped up.

He didn't ask what I wanted.

He knew he couldn't afford jewelry and he had no one to help him drive him to the store to pick up flowers.

He didn't wait for instructions or assume somebody else would do it.

He gathered his siblings and he made a plan.

There's something sacred about being seen, about someone noticing the unspoken weight in a room and deciding to help carry that.

I tried not to cry.

I didn't want them to think that it wasn't enough, but watching my seven, four, and two year old try so hard to be grown up, well, it undid me.

In that moment, Mother's Day took on an entirely new meaning.

I wasn't alone.

I had flowers.

I had toast.

I had three marshmallows and I had love, not extravagant love, not store-bought love, but handmade intentional love.

That morning, I didn't dwell on what was missing.

I saw what was already there and it was enough.

It was more than enough.

Now I kept those drawings and I taped them to my wall where they stayed for years.

They were a daily reminder to me of the role that I had stepped into and the strength growing quietly in our home.

Being a single mom, and I want to emphasize this so much, it didn't mean that I was alone.

I had three little hearts beating under my roof, three little hearts that showed me what Mother's Day is really all about.

Now, did my stomach growl during church that morning?

Yes.

But did I take three amazing little kids out to a buffet afterwards to celebrate?

Absolutely.

So thank you.