Ma, I'm Sorry

Dedicated to My Mother

There are stories that never get told because the people who carried them are no longer here to speak them. This is one of those stories.

I recently shared my story about how I had to grow up too fast and missed out on so much of my childhood. Since then, I've found myself asking a different question:

Why didn't my mother get help?

Why did she allow herself to sink so deeply into depression that alcohol became her only escape?

My mother never had the opportunity to tell her story. Perhaps that's why I feel compelled to tell it now. Maybe it's because a part of me still wonders if I could have done more.

My mother had twelve children, but only ten survived. She endured two miscarriages before I was old enough to understand the weight of such loss.

She was born and raised in Mexico. She was very young when my father took her away from her family. Later, when he tried to return her home, her parents rejected her. They told her she had made her choice and now had to stay with the man she had chosen. That is the story she shared with me.

That was the beginning of a life filled with unimaginable hardship.

She became a wife. She became a mother.

And after my father returned from serving in the military, he became abusive. I only remember fragments of those violent moments. I buried many of those memories because I loved my father deeply, and believing he could do such things was almost too painful to accept.

Eventually, it was decided that my father would travel to America in pursuit of the American dream while my mother stayed behind in Mexico with six children under the care of my grandmother. I was only two weeks old—the youngest of the six.

A few weeks later, my mother followed him to El Norte. She left her five older children with my grandmother, believing it was the only way to create a better future.

Looking back now, I can only imagine the heartbreak she carried.

Her daughters never made it to America. Her sons eventually did, but not until they were adults.

She left pieces of her heart behind.

And somewhere along the way, grief became too heavy to carry.

My mother's escape was alcohol.

It became the only way she knew how to survive.

But all of us paid the price.

I can still hear the doctor's voice as clearly as if it happened yesterday.

"Your mother is very sick. If she wants to live, she has to stop drinking. If she continues like this, she will die."

One year later, I was lying on the couch recovering from an injury when I heard my father repeatedly calling her name. There was panic in his voice.

She never answered.

Something inside me knew.

I jumped up and ran into their room.

"Mom! Wake up! Please wake up!"

Nothing.

I ran outside screaming, begging anyone who could hear me.

"My mother is dying! Somebody help us!"

The ambulance came quickly, and we rushed to the hospital.

After what felt like forever, the doctor walked into the waiting room.

"Are you here alone?" he asked gently. "We need to speak with your father."

"I am alone," I answered through tears. "What's wrong with her? Is she okay?"

He looked at me with sadness in his eyes and spoke the words that have echoed through my life ever since.

"I'm sorry... she didn't make it."

Then he asked, "Can we call someone for you?"

In that moment, it felt like a part of me died too.

I was only fifteen years old.

I still needed my mother.

I screamed.

I cried.

And then...

I went silent.

For a long time, I was angry with God.

Why?

Why hadn't I suffered enough?

Why would He take the one person I still needed?

She was all I had.

Even now, years later, I still wrestle with the guilt that quietly whispers:

"You should have done more."

"You should have saved her."

But I've slowly come to realize something that has taken me years to believe.

I was only a child.

It was never my responsibility to carry my mother's pain.

Only God could carry what was crushing her soul.

That truth doesn't erase the grief.

It doesn't answer every question.

But it has softened the shame I carried for so many years.

Today, I choose to remember my mother with compassion.

I remember a woman who endured tremendous loss.

A woman who carried wounds no one ever helped her heal.

A woman who loved the best she could while fighting battles she didn't know how to win.

And maybe...

In telling her story, I'm finally beginning to understand my own.

A Letter to My Mother

Ma,

I forgive you.

I forgive you for the silence, for the pain, and for the days you were too lost to be the mother we needed.

And I'm sorry.

I'm sorry I didn't do more.

I'm sorry I couldn't save you.

But I was only a child, trying to survive too.

I carry both the love and the heartbreak.

And even though you're gone, you will never be forgotten.

I will cherish all the good memories we shared because, although there were

many painful moments, there were also many happy ones.

With all of my heart,

Your daughter.

Pause & Reflect

Is there someone you've been carrying in your heart?

Maybe it's a parent, a loved one, or even a younger version of yourself.

Take a few moments to bring that person before God. If forgiveness is needed, ask Him for the strength to forgive. If grief remains, invite Him into your sorrow.

He is near to the brokenhearted, and He is gentle with every wound.

"The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit." — Psalm 34:18

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