The house was quieter now. It was quieter than it had ever been. There were no backpacks tossed across the couch, no shoes left by the door, no voices bouncing off the kitchen walls asking, “What’s for dinner?” The silence in the house just felt so heavy to her. It was like it was finally her turn to listen, and all she could hear was the echo of memories and the things that were left unsaid.
She sat at her desk. This was the same one she’d worked at for years. It had become a second home. Honestly, it was more like a first home. That desk paid the bills. It kept the lights on. It made sure birthdays came with cake, school came with supplies, and Christmas came with something, anything, to unwrap. But it also stole something from her. Her knees ached now from years of sitting, her weight had crept up silently, and her energy, well, that seemed to have checked out long before the kids did.
She reached into the drawer and pulled out a pair of brand-new underwear. It was one of many she’d bought recently. She didn’t need them all. Not really. But after nearly three years of wearing the same ones until the elastic in the waistband gave out and the fabric turned into threads, there was something healing about the simple luxury of buying something for herself. This was something that for many years she never did.
She remembered walking through the store aisles back then, putting socks and underwear for the kids into the cart. She would mentally calculate how much she would have left after groceries and bills. Her own underwear never made the cut. Not once. She went without so they never had to. And they never knew. Or maybe they did, but didn’t say anything.
Now, with one already gone and the other packing up for college, she felt it all pressing in. The years she was too tired to play tag. The times she said “no” to the trampoline park or the water slides or anything that required her knees to bend and her body to move like it used to. She was overprotective, sure. She didn’t let them go to every sleepover. She worried too much. But it was always because she was terrified of something happening to them when she couldn’t be there to fix it. She had been the only one there. Always.
She wondered if they resented her for the rules, the curfews, the hovering. For the mom who couldn’t run with them at the park or jump in the pool without needing two days to recover.
If she could sit them down and pour it all out, she’d tell them the truth.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry for not being the fun mom. I’m sorry for not being able to do all the physical things other moms could do. I’m sorry my weight and my knees and my exhaustion kept me on the sidelines. I’m sorry I didn’t take care of my health, because I was so focused on taking care of everything else. I’m sorry I couldn’t give you a two-parent home.
Please know that I never stopped loving you. Every single choice I made, even the ones that cost me my health or material possessions, were for you. I went without new shoes, new clothes, even new underwear, just so you could have what you needed without ever having to worry.
If I could do it again, I’d try harder to find a partner to share it with me. Not for me, but for you. I’d find someone so you could have more laughter in the house, more support, more joy.
Now I’m in my 50s. Still single. And this house, once so full of noise and chaos and crumbs and love, is quiet. Too quiet. And I realize I never asked for forgiveness. Not because I didn’t think I needed it, but because I didn’t want you to think I regretted anything about raising you.
Maybe I do need forgiveness. For not showing up for myself the way I showed up for you. For letting my health go. For being so consumed with survival, I forgot how to live.
I just want you to know that I love you more than anything in this world. I always have. I always will. I hope one day, when you’re raising kids or just reflecting on your own journey, you’ll see all the things I did, and didn’t do, not as failures, but as sacrifices. I hope you see these things as love, in its rawest form.”
She wiped her eyes, tucked the new underwear back in the drawer, and took a breath. She wasn’t sure if she’d ever actually say those words out loud. But maybe, just maybe, they already knew.
Feature Photo by Natalia Luchanko on Unsplash
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