I loved my mom too late—far too late.

As a kid, I hated her. I was a daddy’s boy, not a mama’s boy. I didn’t see it then, but she was always the one who stayed. She treated me like a son. My dad treated me like a tool.

We fought all the time. I avoided her, resented her. And every time they argued, I took my dad’s side—blindly. Not realizing I was standing with the one who broke her. And I regret that more than anything.

It wasn’t until I grew older—old enough to really listen to understand the quiet pain in family conversations—that I saw the truth. They treated her badly. 

My aunts were cruel. They all treated my mom like an outsider in her own home. My grandfather laughed at her—mocked her like she was nothing. And my dad… He treated her like trash. He looked down on her, his own wife, just because she was a high school graduate. As if her education defined her worth. As if kindness, strength, and sacrifice didn’t matter.

They made her feel small—like she didn’t belong.

And I did too. And it was just another wound she had to carry.

I was swallowed by guilt in those moments. How could I have treated her that way? When she needed someone the most, I wasn’t there.

All my life, I wasn’t just absent—I was adding to the weight of the wounds she already carried.

Wounds I helped deepen with my silence, my anger, my blindness.

Now I wonder…

How do you heal the scars you were the one to leave behind? How do you make peace with the love you withheld? 

But maybe, just maybe, it wasn’t too late to make things right. At least, I hoped it wasn’t.

From that moment on, I changed, slowly. I stopped hating her. I slowly started to know her more, what her past was like, how she overcame challenges, what she did when she was around my age. Not only that, I stood by her. I defended her behind closed doors, even if it meant the rest of the family turned against me. I started being her son—not just by blood, but in action.

And still, she never changed.

She stayed kind. She still supported me in everything I do. When I joined a choir competition. I doubted myself—my voice, my worth—but she believed in me. My mom was a singer; she had an angelic voice that could calm storms. And with that same voice, she helped build my confidence, little by little. Even when we didn’t win, she congratulated me like I did—Because to her, giving my best was already enough.

She was also there when I received my first medal. Back in elementary and junior high, I was lazy and didn’t do well. But for her, I tried. I gave my best—just for the chance to see her walk up the stage and place that medal around my neck. She stood by me when no one else did. And she made me feel like I was more than enough.

She also taught me how a real man should be. She showed me what it means to be a gentleman—To treat women with respect, kindness, and patience. She taught me that, Because she never experienced it with my dad.

She wanted better for me. And through her, I learned how to be better—Not just for others, but for myself. She became the father I never had—while still being the mother I never appreciated.

I tried to make it up to her, But nothing felt enough for all the years I failed her.

I dreamed of giving her the life she always wanted but never had. But I was too late.

I lost her one random March—Because of people we thought we could trust…

She suffered alone—At the hands of the very people we once helped. People we welcomed with open hearts, who repaid us not with gratitude, but with cruelty. 

I lost her before I could repay her. Before I could show her what her love meant. Before I could give her the life she always deserved.

I would give anything to hear her voice again, telling stories about her childhood, her teenage years. Her stories were the soundtrack of our dinners—And now, the silence is deafening.

I miss her cooking on my birthdays. Her way of making everything feel like home. I wish I had asked for her recipes—So her hands could live on through mine. So her warmth could reach future generations.

Now, all I have left are the songs she played every afternoon, the kind of love that stitched itself into the deepest part of me, and my reflection—Because I carry her face, her heart. People say I look like my dad and even call me by his name, but no—I want to be like Mom. I want to be kind like her.

I lost her before I could repay her. Before I could show her how much her love meant to me. Before I could give her the life she always deserved. 

And I wish I could say these words to you—

“Dear Mom, 

I’m sorry—for the years I spent not seeing you. For the pain I added to the ones you already carried. For taking too long to understand the depth of your love. I wish I could’ve done more. I wish I had more time. 

But still… I’m grateful. You shaped me into who I am today. Because of you, I found the strength to become this person. And I’m happy, I’m happy that in your last month, you saw me smile. You saw me chasing dreams—And like always, you were right there, cheering me on. I’m always, forever thankful for you, Mom.

I was lucky to have a mom like you. Even if I realized it too late. 

Thank you, Mom. For your sacrifices, your love, your patience. 

For everything. 

If love could’ve given us more time, I would’ve spent it telling you just how thankful I am that you were my mother. 

Your son,

Miko”