Dear Parent

You can’t raise a child you never showed up for.

You don’t get to say you were part of this.

Or brag about where I am now.

Who I am now.

Not when you never called.

Never sent a card.

Rarely made an appearance that didn’t benefit you.

There was not a single effort that wasn’t forced.

Mostly silence.

And in that silence?

My mother carried the weight of shaping my heart.

My grandmother protected me from entitled hands.

And I learned far too young what it feels like to be disposable.

I confused attention with affection.

Thinking that would prove that you were wrong.

And that I was worthy of love.

But love is presence.

Effort.

Consistency.

Not excuses.

Not promises you never keep.

Not showing up to get your own bucket filled.

Don’t act like this is anyone else’s fault.

Don’t feel bad for me.

Feel bad for yourself.

I’m okay.

More than okay.

Because your absence taught me what presence looks like.

I learned how to parent by the ache you gave me.

I wasn’t perfect.

That’s not the goal.

I show up.

Every time.

My children never question who they are or what they mean.

They have never had to earn my love.

Or compete with my ego.

On their worst days, they don’t long for just “any parent figure.”

They want their mom.

You made me who I am.

But it’s nothing to brag about.

And maybe the strangest grace in all of this…

I am not nearly as broken as the children you were “there” for.

Lucky me.