Who do I even put the blame on? That question itself feels like a dagger twisting inside me. Because the larger truth looms heavy - perhaps there is no blame at all. Or perhaps, the cruelest answer is that the blame lies with me.
Where did I falter? What signs did I miss? Were they subtle at first - an unanswered call, a delayed reply, a polite excuse for not visiting? Did I not notice the avoidance that crept in like a slow leak, barely perceptible at the beginning, until one day the floor beneath me was flooded and I could no longer swim?
I thought he was busy - that word, "busy," became the cushion I laid beneath my wounds, softening each blow. Busy with office stress. Busy with meetings. Busy traveling for business. Busy with friends, movies, vacations. Busy living a life too full for me. I assumed he was okay, and I stepped back. I maintained my distance, thinking I was giving him space.
But why? Why did I assume? Why did I wait for him to come to me, instead of simply reaching out, insisting, probing the silence until it gave me an answer? I let my maternal instinct dull, replaced by hesitation, pride, maybe even fear. And in that hesitation, the distance widened.
He never complained. Never once. I'll give him that. Not once did he say, "Mom, you don't call enough, you don't ask enough, you don't check in on me anymore." No, he remained silent - and in that silence, I now wonder if he was waiting for me to show more intent, more proactivity, like the mother I once was.
Did he expect me to treat him like a child again, to call three times a day, to ask if he'd eaten, if he was tired, if he needed anything? But how long does a mother go on mothering before it tips into intrusion? And did he, even for a second, sense that time had finally begun catching up with me - that my body no longer moves with the vigor it once had, that my mind tires quicker, that I, too, now long for someone to check in on me?
I think of all those years, all the relentless balancing I did as a single mother. My ambition stunted, my career half-fulfilled, my personal life entirely abandoned - all sacrificed so I could nurture him.
Yet, even amidst the exhaustion, I made sure he never felt neglected. I was there at every exam, waiting with water, snacks, and a prayer in my heart. I was there making sure his meals were hot and ready, even when my own dinner was cold leftovers.
I was there hunched over college applications, reading fine print until my eyes blurred. I was there at every football game, cheering the loudest when his team won, comforting him when they lost. I was there to light a candle on every birthday cake, to applaud every certificate, to celebrate every small milestone as though he had conquered the world.
And now? Now I sit alone, staring at my phone like it's a lifeline that refuses to buzz. The cool evening breeze brushes past my face, stirring up those golden memories, and for a moment I almost smile.
But then the wind grows stronger, harsher, and the caress turns into a slap. A slap across my cheek, sharp enough to sting. I grin bitterly at the irony. Even nature mocks me now. Even the air I breathe seems to laugh at this lonely, broken shell of a woman I've become.
And that's the harsh truth, isn't it? I didn't need a stranger, or a cruel twist of fate, or some tragic accident to bring me here. I didn't need another man to betray me, or a random flick of bad luck to knock me down.
No - it was my own blood. My own flesh. The child I protected, nurtured, lived for. He was the one who transformed me - me, who was once a blazing force, fierce and independent - into this meek, fragile, half-living creature. Slowly mortifying. Slowly decaying.
So I ask again: who do I blame? The world? Fate? Him? Myself? And the answer is merciless, unwavering, and cold: there is no one else to blame. No one. The circle completes itself, and it points right back to me.
Because I dared to expect. Because I dared to hope. Because I dared to love too much.