To whoever chooses to listen,

I’m writing this because Mother’s Day is coming, and the grief is already too heavy to hold. Not because my children are gone — they aren’t. Not all of them. Not completely. But because we are not together the way we should have been. The way we would have been if anyone had stepped in when we were begging for help.

I wanted to be everything for them.
I wanted to carry their pain, their hurricanes, their tornadoes, their smiles, their magic — all of it — in my own two hands. I wanted to be the one who held their storms so they didn’t have to. I wanted to be the one who absorbed the chaos so they could finally breathe.

But nobody tells you that trauma doesn’t soften just because a child is placed in a loving home.
Nobody tells you that some children live in fight‑or‑flight so deeply that every day becomes a battlefield.
Nobody tells you that child‑to‑parent violence is real, and terrifying, and lonely, and that you will hide bruises on your heart long before you ever hide them on your skin.

There were days when the panic in my chest never left — hour to hour, minute to minute — like thunder rolling through the house without a break. Days where the air felt electric with fear. Days where I didn’t know what version of the storm would hit next.

And the trauma bond between siblings — people romanticise sibling love, but this wasn’t that. This was fireworks that weren’t fun. Explosions that lit up the room and burned everything they touched. Love and pain tangled together so tightly that none of us could breathe.

I tried.
I tried until I broke.
I tried until I didn’t recognise myself.
I tried until the nights blurred into guilt and the days blurred into survival.

And yes — there was a time, long ago now, when the darkness felt so thick that I wrote a letter I never want to see again. A letter from a moment when I thought I couldn’t keep going. I didn’t act on it. I reached for help instead. I did the right thing. I did what we tell people to do.

And somehow, after reaching out, life got even darker.

That’s the part nobody understands.
That’s the part nobody wants to hear.
That’s the part that still stings.

Because I didn’t give up.
I asked for help.
I fought for us.
I fought for them.
I fought for our family.

But love without support collapses.
Love without scaffolding falls apart.
Love without help becomes a battlefield.

We could have been together this Mother’s Day.
All of us.
In one home.
In one life.
In one messy, loud, beautiful, imperfect family.

But we aren’t.
Because the people who should have seen us didn’t.
The people who should have believed us didn’t.
The people who should have supported us didn’t.

They blamed us.
They questioned us.
They judged us.
They left us to manage trauma that professionals struggle to manage — and then acted shocked when we couldn’t hold the weight alone.

And here’s the truth that keeps me awake:

If I can barely carry my grief without dropping to my knees,
how are my children supposed to carry theirs?

Children who already had a lifetime of loss before they ever walked into my home.
Children who already knew chaos better than comfort.
Children who already had wounds older than their years.

Their grief is heavier than mine.
Heavier than yours.
Heavier than any child should ever have to hold.

And yet the system expects them to carry it.
Quietly.
Neatly.
Without support.
Without understanding.
Without anyone noticing the weight on their backs.

I haven’t lost them entirely.
But I have lost the life we were meant to have.
They have lost the stability they deserved.
We have lost the chance to grow together, heal together, stay together.

And now Mother’s Day — (and Father’s Day for some) — are days of complicated love.
Days where the world celebrates something simple while we live something unbearably complex.

There is no grave.
No goodbye.
No ritual.
Just a family that exists in pieces instead of one whole.

A family that could have stayed together if anyone had cared enough to help.
A family that loved each other fiercely, but was left without the tools to survive the storm.

This isn’t a story of failure.
It’s a story of being failed.

And it’s a story of love — real, messy, stubborn love — that still exists, even now, even through the grief, even through the distance.

My children are still mine.
I am still theirs.
But we deserved better than this.
They deserved better than this.

And as Mother’s Day approaches, the grief feels too heavy to hold — not because they are gone, but because we should have been together.

We could have been together.

And that truth is the heaviest part of all.