things i need to say to mothers: letter no. 002 — legally

my mother. legally.

i wanted you to love me.
so badly.
i still do.

i wanted you to know that even when it seems like i’m too much,
it’s only because i’ve seen too much.

but i wasn’t lying.
not once.
not when i called you,
because he was stealing from me.
not when i texted you,
because he was drinking again.

not when i pleaded,
as he drained my credit cards.
not that christmas,
when i begged you to believe me
that he was beating me.

i know how ugly it sounds.
"your little boy?"

i know.

we blame me.
the monster.
the insane one.

but the truth is—
i was third trimester,
getting my ass kicked in the hallway,
because i wasn’t the kind of woman
who would minimize the violence.

he knew that.
and it scared him.

not because i was dangerous,
but because i was honest.

i said: "be better. stop hurting us."

i said: "i’ve seen war too. so don’t think you can break me and call it trauma."

i said: "i know what cruelty looks like, and i’m still not becoming it."

and that made him feel small.
so he made me feel smaller.

i wasn’t the first.
won’t be the last.
you know that, right?

this didn’t start with me.
i know you know.
the pattern’s older than our story.

i’m sure it started with his father.
then the wars.
then the things he did
and saw
and killed
and buried.

i tell you this not to shame you.
but because i made you a promise.
and i’ve kept it.

i told you i would never cut you out.
that no matter what he became,
i would never make you pay the price.

i meant it.

i welcome you in her life.
forever.

because she didn’t ask for any of this.
i didn’t know what he was when we made her.
but she deserves a father.
a real one.

and he will never become that if no one tells him the truth.

so i’m telling you.

you have to help him.
no one else can.

i can’t.
i have our daughter to protect.
i have my life.
my body.
my spirit.
and he’s already almost broken all of it.

the addiction.
the lies.
the paranoia.
the debt.
the silence.

the threats. the bruises. the blackouts.

the bills he left me.
the pain he never cleaned up.

i almost died.
more than once.
and everything i put in those documents?
it was real.
it was worse.

he never tried to make it right.
not once.

the truth is—
he might die like this.
alone.
bitter.
lying to himself until the end.

and the truth is—
i still don’t want that.

i want him to know love again.
real love.
a love that protects.
a love that stays.

but he’s too far gone to find it himself.

you have to say something.
you have to do something.

because no one else will.
because he might listen to you.
because he still loves you.
even when he forgets how to show it.

this isn’t just a warning.
it’s a fucking alarm.

your son is vanishing.
he is dangerous.

and the daughter he made is growing up
with questions i can’t answer alone.

so mother.
my mother.

the only one left standing who might still see the boy beneath the mask.

tell him.

tell him the wreckage is waiting.
and to face it.

love
always,
sam

sam.