The letter I wish could write

Dear Mom

It’s hard to believe we’ve passed the third Mother’s Day since you died. A lot has happened in that time. Some things I’m proud of, some things I’m not, and some things I still carry around like a sack of bricks tied to my back. There are things I’m embarrassed about too, though you knew me well enough to know my embarrassment usually got me into more trouble than whatever caused it in the first place.

I guess I’ll start in January of 2024, when you landed in the hospital. You were getting sicker, and ironically, I was very sick too, though for entirely different reasons. The truth is, Mom, I had developed a substance use problem that would eventually become part of the end of my career. While you were dying, the investigation that ultimately cost me my professional licensing had already started. It began because someone thought I was impaired at work when in reality I was having a stroke. By the time everything came crashing down, you had died, and I had finally realized I needed to stop before I died too.

I was so physically sick I couldn’t travel. I knew you were close to the end, and no matter how much strength I tried to force out of myself, there was no way I could make that trip. I was left with two FaceTime calls, and that was it. To this day, I regret not being there at the end. I regret it deeply. The only way I’ve been able to think of making that right was by getting sober and staying sober. I’m still trying to give myself grace over that, but the truth is the well runs pretty dry most days. Still, I know you would’ve been cheering me on every step of the way.

The truth is, I’m sorry I wasn’t really there during the last five years of your life either, though a lot of that wasn’t entirely my fault. I think he never got over the closeness you and I had, and he did everything he could to drive a wedge between us. Why do you think we always met at the Maverik truck stop? I saw the isolation happening, but for a long time I felt powerless to stop it. Paul finally helped me find the courage to file for divorce. I’m glad you got to see the beginning of that before he decided to end the marriage by taking his own life. In a lot of ways, I’m grateful you were spared the aftermath of all of that.

Some of the things he said broke my heart. I won’t repeat them because honestly, I’m thankful you never had to hear them. A lot of it centered around the relationship you and I shared, and the fact that I still turned to you for advice instead of him. I never understood why that bothered him so much. You understood me in ways nobody else ever really did. You always seemed to know when something was wrong even before I said it out loud. In the end, he rarely cared about what I was struggling with unless it somehow reflected positively on him. The isolation from you, Sarah, and Dad became overwhelming. Looking back now, I think you saw the same thing happening in my friendship with Paul too. But that’s not really what this letter is about.

Our upbringing was rough sometimes. I know being a divorced woman in the 1970s and early 1980s came with its own scarlet letter, especially in small-town Kansas. There was always more going on than either you or Dad ever really said out loud. But when I think back on childhood, one thing stands out more than anything else: your kindness.

Someone once told me you were the kind of person who would give someone the shirt off your back even if it was your last one. We didn’t have an extravagant childhood. There were times I resented that when I was younger. But what I understand now is that you made up for every lack of money with love, compassion, and determination to make sure Sarah and I had what mattered. I don’t think we ever truly disappointed you, and if we did, you forgave us faster than we deserved.

You were always there. Scout meetings. Swim meets. School activities. You worked nights and still somehow managed to show up exhausted to support us during the day. Looking back now as an adult, I honestly don’t know how you did it. The support you gave us was extraordinary.

I always felt safe in our house, and that mattered more than I ever realized at the time. We moved a lot, and small towns can be brutally cruel to newcomers. Years later, when I went back to one of those towns for a reunion, I was shocked by how many people remembered me kindly. Funny how places that once felt threatening can soften with time. I never told you how hard some of those years were because I knew you were doing everything you could just to keep us afloat. Whenever I did come to you with problems, you were practical, honest, and supportive. That mattered more than I probably ever told you.

One of the most vivid memories I have was the morning you dropped me off at high school and casually told me Dad was “bisexual.” You have to remember, Mom, I was a teenage boy growing up in Kansas in the seventies. I had absolutely no idea what that meant. It took me years to fully understand it, but that conversation stuck with me for a very long time.

You supported me joining the National Guard at seventeen without hesitation, mostly because all my friends were joining too. Honestly, it became one of the best decisions I ever made, even if leaving the military remains one of my biggest regrets. The irony is I originally joined because I thought somehow it would make me straight. It didn’t. Instead, I spent years wrestling with who I was while also trying to survive PTSD and military life. Eventually, it became too much. I don’t regret serving, though. I only regret not being able to stay longer.

When I came out, you handled it better than I expected. Given the family history and the environment you grew up in, I honestly expected worse. Not because you were cruel, but because of the world you lived through. Instead, you gave me grace. You supported me through things you didn’t fully understand, and that mattered more than you probably realized. I know there were times you wished I’d had children, and I know some of my choices in partners probably left you wondering what in the hell I was doing. After David and Billy, I think the last one seemed manageable at first. At least until he wasn’t.

Looking back, I honestly think I was a difficult kid. My teenage years were rough, and I behaved like an asshole more than once. My adult years weren’t exactly a masterpiece either. Sometimes I felt like everything I did pushed us farther apart instead of closer together. But you never stopped trying. Ever. That’s one of the things that hurts the most now. I know exactly what you would say: “You’re my kid. I don’t give up on my kids.” That kind of unconditional love stays with a person forever.

Even when I was already deep into the isolation and dysfunction of that marriage, you still took a train from Havre, Montana, all the way to Seattle for my wedding. That wedding happened after the second incident of domestic violence, something I never told you about at the time. You didn’t know the extent of what was happening until years later, and by then I was already emotionally buried under it. I wish now that I had talked to you sooner. I think your perspective might have helped me leave before everything became so catastrophic.

Then, in the end, I wasn’t there again. Not when you died, and not even when it came time to finally put you to rest in one of the most beautiful places I’ve ever seen. By then I was unraveling physically and emotionally. I had what I later learned was a frontal stroke after an explosive argument with Sarah, and I bailed on the trip entirely. A friend was willing to drive me there and attend the service with me. Ironically, he turned out to be exactly the kind of person I needed in my life at exactly the right time. He’s someone I mentored years ago in the Army who went on to become very successful. In a lot of ways I’m proud of him, though if I’m being honest there’s probably a little jealousy mixed in there too.

This is one of those situations where “sorry” never really feels big enough. But I truly am sorry, Mom. I know my therapist says I need to give myself grace, but that well still feels mostly empty. Some days I convince myself I’m doing better, and then an anniversary hits or some random memory surfaces and suddenly I’m right back there drowning in remorse again.

The funny thing is I already know what you’d say. You’d probably look at me and say, “Okay, so you fucked up. What are you going to do to fix it?”

I don’t fully know, Mom. But I’m trying. I stay sober one day at a time. At two and a half years sober, it’s gotten easier, but I still only trust life one day at a time because that’s all any of us are guaranteed. I’m trying to live again despite the disabilities and limitations. I think that stubbornness comes directly from you.

I fall a lot now, and I worry constantly about losing my independence. I think about how many times you fell and hid it from Sarah because you didn’t want people worrying about you. I understand that now in ways I never did before. But I also learned from it that honesty matters if I want to protect what independence I still have left. Physical therapy and occupational therapy are helping. Part of me still secretly hopes for some miraculous recovery where I regain most of what I lost, even though I know that probably isn’t realistic.

I still try to do good in the world like you did. I help people where I can, though people sometimes mistake kindness for stupidity. Maybe they always will. You taught me that generosity isn’t about how much money you have; it’s about how you treat people.

I know you wished I prayed more and went to church more. Truthfully, a lot of life pushed me away from organized religion. Some of it started in Kansas. Some of it happened later. Being molested by a chaplain at Philmont destroyed a level of trust in clergy that I never really recovered from. I still believe there’s something bigger than us out there, some kind of spiritual plane, but I don’t think I’ll ever be a churchgoing person again. Still, I’m glad your faith gave you strength because you truly practiced what most people only preach. You lived compassion. You lived grace. You lived Christ’s love better than most people who shout about it every Sunday.

And as usual, I’ve written a novel.

If you were still here, I know you would’ve read every single word of it. Then I would’ve gotten a phone call telling me I didn’t ruin everything, that I made you proud, and that trying to fix what I broke mattered more than the mistakes themselves.

The truth is, I didn’t learn that on my own. You taught me that. Even now, after you’re gone, you’re still teaching me things.

My grief has been messy as hell. I’ve spent the last few years balancing your death alongside all the other losses and chaos that came afterward. But I’m still here, and I plan on staying here until it’s my time. Don’t worry, Mom. I’m not in any hurry to join you.

As strange as it sounds, losing him taught me something important too: I still have a life left to live. I remember you telling me that shortly after you learned how bad things really were.

I love you, Mom. The dogs love you too. And maybe John Lennon was right when he said all you need is love.

Thank you for everything. And I’m truly sorry for the ways I fucked up, especially the times those mistakes caused you pain or worry.