things i need to say to mothers: letter no. 001 — hail mary

this is my hail mary.
(the long shot)

i don’t know if you’ll read this.
i know you used to listen when i tried to talk.
i loved that.
i loved how you loved me.
noticed me.
made me feel like beautiful destruction.

and i’ll always love you for that.
for seeing me.

but really—
if i know the way you know your son,
then you feel it.

when something shifts in the atmosphere.
when the pain returns.
when he disappears a little too far inside himself,
and you wonder—
quietly—
if the boy you raised is still in there.

you know—
i know that ache.
i held it.
i loved him when he still knew how to be loved.
before it hardened.
before the light in his eyes
became something he had to guard.

you saw it, too.
i know you did.
you always knew what we were.
even before we did.

and i know now
that you carry shame no one should have had to carry.
shame for what you missed.
shame for what you couldn’t fix.
shame for trying to mother
while healing from the places that tried to break you.
(me too)

but this isn’t blame.
(we both deserve grace)

this is a plea.

and if you’re still here—
then you’re here for a reason.

and it’s probably because
you know i’m telling the truth.

you know i see him.
clearly.

you know i had the key to the version of him
that still bled when things mattered.
that still cracked open for softness.
and it wasn’t just about us.
not in the romantic way.
not anymore.

this is about him.

and her.

and you.

because there was a moment—
i swear—
(just a second ago)
where he saw it, too.
where we almost imagined the life
where he stepped up.
where he became that man
on purpose.
with presence.
with intention.

we talked about it—
what it would look like
for him to show up.
to stay.

(and not for me—
for her.)

and i think he really wanted to.

i felt him want to.

we stared at each other.
i told him i could help—
he knew i meant it—
but he’s terrified.
terrified i’m the enemy.
a wolf hidden in sheep’s clothing.
(i am not)

and
he ran.
even though he knew
it was right.
even though he said yes.
even though.
he promised.
but he got scared.
(he said he would)
and he ran.

and i know you don’t want to hear this part.
(his heart is so gentle;
so beautiful.)

but i swear—

now he lies.
he’s mean.
he’s even cruel—
not out of malice,
but to spare himself
from the weight of accountability.

he ghosts like a man dodging landmines.
he rewrites the story
so he doesn't have to face
what he did.
what he does.
what he still won’t name.

he’s not cold because he doesn’t care.
he’s cold because caring would cost him the illusion
that he’s still emotionally surviving.
that he’s ok.

but mother—
he’s not.
he’s drowning.
he’s hardening.

and that’s the part
i think you already know.
the part that keeps you awake sometimes.
because this version of him—
this distant,
detached,
sharpened shell—
this isn’t your boy.
not the one we both knew.

and i know you don’t want to believe that,
but i need you to hear it anyway.

he breaks me so heavy,
i can’t hold it by myself anymore.
(he abandons me—
brutally.
every time he can’t avoid
the truth in my eyes.)

he will keep running from me
because he can.
because enough people have said
“yeah, she’s crazy.”

but i’m not.

i’ve made mistakes—
god,
i’ve made them.
but i’m not crazy.

i’ve just walked too long with ghosts
no one wanted to bury.
or name aloud.
and one of the only things i’ve ever known
as true
was this love.
from this man.

but he won’t heal
until he’s brave enough
to jump timelines.

until he lets it all die
so something more courageous can live.

and

you are the only one
who can get him there.
who remembers the softness.
who isn’t afraid to say—

i know what you used to be.
and i know who you could become.

so please.

if you have it in you—
confront him.
pull him out.
say the thing no one else will.

because he will run forever
if no one makes him stop.
he will vanish into himself
and call it survival.

help me—
i can’t reach him anymore.

and not for me.

for him.
for her.
for you.
for the boy you raised
and the man he could still be.

love
always,

sam.

…


p.s.
**
watching what he’s becoming—
i know it will be irreversible.

but i still saw the glimmer in his eyes.
it’s still there.
i think there’s time.

he needs bravery.
clarity.
accountability.
(a mirror)

sos.