To Jason, I’m Sorry
I don’t know
if you remember
the nights I forgot
how to be your mother.
But I do.
And they haunt me.
I see your little hands
reaching out
for mine—
and finding nothing
but air
and absence.
You deserved lullabies
and warm meals,
not locked doors
and broken promises.
Not a mama
with shadows in her eyes.
I thought I was chasing peace,
but I was running
from myself—
and in the process,
I ran from you.
There were days
I chose the high
over your hugs,
and nights
I missed tucking you in
because I was too lost
in a world
that gave nothing back
but pain.
And for that—
I am sorry.
I’m sorry
you learned silence
before laughter,
worry
before wonder.
I’m sorry
you had to grow up
faster than your smile.
But I need you to know,
Jason—
I never stopped loving you.
Not once.
Even when I couldn’t love myself.
Even when I disappeared
into the dark.
You were the flicker
that kept me alive—
the reason I crawled
through every ugly step
of recovery.
Now, I fight
every single day
not to be perfect—
but to be present.
Not to erase the past—
but to earn your future.
I will never be able
to rewrite those chapters,
but I promise
to fill the next pages
with truth,
and time,
and healing.
You, my son,
are the most beautiful thing
I never deserved—
but I am learning
to be someone
who does.
So if you ever wonder
if you were enough—
You were.
You are.
You always will be.
It was me
who couldn’t see clearly.
But now I do.
And I’m still here—
choosing you,
choosing life,
choosing to be the mom
you needed
all along.
I love you, Jason.
I’m sorry.
And I’m so proud
to be your mother.