The Love I Owe Her
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.
