A Letter to My Mother

Dear Mom,

I wish you were still here. I miss you every single day, despite all the things you didn’t get right. It’s a strange feeling—to long for someone who hurt me, who failed to protect me, who couldn’t see my needs. I miss you, but I don’t miss the way you often overlooked me, how my needs felt invisible. So many times, I needed you to step in, to protect me from harm, but you couldn’t—or wouldn’t. It took me a long time to understand that you were sick, fighting battles I couldn’t see. I get it now, I really do, but that understanding doesn’t erase the weight you left behind. Thinking of you still brings tears to my eyes.

I often wonder about you and the choices you made. How could you let those things happen to me? Were you lost in your own mind, trying to escape from a life you didn’t want? Were you searching for something that no one could provide? It felt like you were always seeking something other than me and my brother. It was your job to protect us, but you threw us to the wolves. And sometimes, you were one of those wolves too. That’s the hardest part—you were both the danger and the one I loved the most. It’s such a conflict to hold inside, but I never stopped loving you, even after everything.

I still remember the time we made chocolate chip cookies together. Just one simple day, but it’s a moment I cling to. For those hours, you were all mine. You weren’t distracted or angry; you were just there, with me. That small slice of time, less than a couple of hours, remains in my heart even now, 55 years later. I hold onto it because it was one of the few times I saw the mother I desperately wished you could be. Those are the moments I wanted more of—the mother who laughed with me, who made me feel safe and cherished. 

Instead, you were often lost in your own pain and addiction, a world I couldn’t understand.

When you overdosed for the last time, I wondered if you truly wanted to leave this world or if you just wanted to disappear for a while. The thought still haunts me. Why did you have to relapse? Seeing the words "suicide" on your death certificate felt like a punch to my soul. The pain of your decision became mine to bear. I know life was hard for you; I’ve come to understand that more with time. But your absence made my path so much harder. You always said it was my brother who needed your concern, that he was the one to worry about. I can still hear you saying it. You never thought I needed anything, that I could handle it all on my own. Was I really that strong, even as a little girl? Or were you just too consumed by your own pain to see mine? The abuse I endured was overwhelming, and it still haunts me. I wonder if you knew the depth of it and chose to look away, or if facing it was simply too much for you.

Taking care of my brother, with his mental illness and addiction, has been a burden I was never meant to carry. You made him an addict, you made him troubled—through your own abuse and the abuse you allowed. It became my responsibility, and I had no say in it. You chose to bring us into this world, and when you left, you abandoned everything you couldn’t handle. It wasn’t fair then, and it doesn’t feel fair now. There are days when I’m angry at you for putting everything on me without a second thought. Yet, even with all that, I still ache for you. I still long for the mother I needed you to be, the mother I believe you could have been if life had been kinder. My tears flow as I write this.

It’s been 38 years since you took your life, but it feels like it was just yesterday. The shock of it, the finality of your decision—it’s something I’ve never fully processed. People say time heals all wounds, but I’m not sure that’s true. The memory of losing you feels fresh, as if no time has passed at all. It forces me to confront all the grief I’ve tried to bury, the longing that still sits quietly inside me. It brings back both the love and the pain.

I wanted to say something I’ve never been able to say out loud: I forgive you. I know you were suffering. I know you faced things I could never fully understand and that you did the best you could with what you had. It’s taken me a long time to reach this place—a place where I can let go of the anger and resentment. I’ve realized that holding onto that anger only hurts me more. I’ve had to learn how to make peace with everything you couldn’t be, to accept the mother I had instead of the mother I dreamed of.

I hope that wherever you are, you’ve found some peace. I pray that you are no longer haunted by the things that tormented you in life. I pray you’ve been able to heal in ways you couldn’t when you were here. I like to imagine that you’re watching over me, that you see the struggles I’ve faced and the strength I’ve had to find within myself. I hope you’re proud of me, even if you never told me that when you were alive.

And I hope that someday, somewhere, I’ll see you again. I don’t know what happens after we leave this world, but if there’s a chance that we can meet again, I’d like to believe we could heal together. I’d like to believe we could find the love that was lost between us, and that maybe, for the first time, we could both be at peace. Until then, I’ll hold onto the good memories, however few they might be, and I’ll keep forgiving you, day by day.

With all my love, and all the pieces of my broken heart,

Your Daughter