*Authors note* This poem is from Bulma's point of view

As I sit at my computer, I often think to myself "Was it meant to be?"

My son cries, and I get up to feed him,

But he wasn't crying for me.

He was crying for his father.

The father that is never home.

The father that is never there

The father he doesn't even know.

I try to calm the crying child,

And wonder "Was it meant to be?"

I climb into my bed,

And I stare at the side where the father sleeps.

He is training again, as he does every day.

I watch the clock tick.

I watch the hands move slowly,

Until they reach two thirty

When the door opens.

I lie in bed, trying to sleep,

And wonder "Was it meant to be?"

I feel the blankets ruffle,

And the bed squeak

As the father climbs in.

I open my eyes,

As he pulls me into his warm embrace,

And his lips brush against mine.

I stare into his dark, mysterious eyes

And find love.

Not just for fighting, but for his family.

For his son.

For me.

I fall asleep in his warm embrace,

Knowing it was meant to be.