An Open Letter to My Sons

To my sons, 1, 2 and 4,

There are some things I have carried in my heart for a very long time.

I don't know whether you will ever read this.

I don't know whether you will ever want to hear from me.

I don't know whether there will ever be another opportunity for me to sit beside you, look into your eyes and tell you these things in person.

So I am writing them down.

Not to change your mind.

Not to defend myself.

Not to ask you to choose sides.

And certainly not to ask you to carry anything that belongs to the adults in our family.

I am writing because there is something I need you to know.

I loved you.

I loved you from the beginning.

When I met you, you were children. One of you had just turned ten. Another was seven. And another was just six, in kindergarten.

You came into my life and, almost immediately, you became part of my heart.

And my son, number 3, loved you too.

You weren't simply children who came into our house. You became our family. You became my boys.

I remember the children you were. I remember your personalities. I remember the things that made you laugh. I remember the things that frightened you. I remember the things you needed. And I remember how deeply I wanted you to be okay.

You each needed different things from me. One of you needed someone to talk to. One of you needed enormous amounts of quality time and connection. One of you came alive through play.

You were all carrying things that children should never have had to carry. And I saw it. I knew you were struggling. I tried to help you in the ways I knew how.

But there is something I need to say now that I have struggled with for a very long time.

I wish I had done more.

I wish I had fought harder for you. I wish I had been braver. I wish I had understood sooner what I understand now. I wish I had pushed harder when you needed help. I wish I had protected you more fiercely. I wish I had found a way to make sure that you received the professional support that you needed.

And I am sorry.

I am profoundly sorry.

Not because I didn't love you. I loved you enormously. But because sometimes loving someone and knowing what to do to protect them are not the same thing.

I was trying to survive things I didn't fully understand myself. So much of what was happening in our family was hidden. It wasn't always obvious. It wasn't always something I could point to. And when I did try to intervene, there were consequences that I was frightened of.

There were times when I knew something wasn't right and still didn't know how to make it right.

I wish I had known then what I know now. I wish I had possessed the courage and understanding I have today.

Most of all, I wish I had fought harder for your right to receive help.

I think about that particularly now because I have had the opportunity to fight fiercely for your younger brothers. I have fought for them to receive the support they need. I have sat in doctors' offices. I have made phone calls. I have attended meetings. I have advocated. I have refused to accept that their suffering should simply be ignored.

And one day, sitting beside your youngest brother while he finally received formal mental-health support for what our family had experienced, my heart broke.

Because I realised that this was something you boys had needed too.

And I thought: why didn't I fight this hard for them?

I know the answer is complicated. I was living inside the same family system. I was frightened. I was trying to protect everyone. I was trying to keep the family together. I was trying to minimise the damage. And I was trying to survive things that I didn't yet have the words to understand.

But none of that changes the fact that I wish I had done more.

So I am asking you for something. Not for your understanding of everything that happened. Not for you to agree with my version of events. Not for you to take my side. And not for you to reject anyone else.

I simply ask you, if you ever think of me, to remember that I loved you. That part was never an act. It wasn't manipulation. It wasn't something I did because you were my husband's children. I loved you because you were you.

I loved the little boys who walked into my life. And I loved the young men you became. I still do.

You Never Had to Choose Me

There is something else I want you to know.

I don't blame you. Not for leaving. Not for the distance. Not for the things you may have heard. Not for the things you may believe about me. Not for choosing your father.

You were placed in circumstances where choosing could have felt impossible. Children who grow up inside complicated family systems can find themselves carrying loyalties that are far bigger than they should ever have had to carry.

I understand that now.

So if you ever believed that you had to choose your father, I want you to know something: I never wanted you to choose me. I wanted you to be safe. I wanted you to be loved. I wanted you to be able to have relationships with both of your parents without feeling that loving one meant betraying the other.

And if circumstances made that impossible, that was never your fault.

You were children. Even when you became adults, the history of what you had lived through did not suddenly disappear.

So I don't hold anger toward you. There is nothing you need to apologise to me for. Nothing.

I Remember the Eighteen Years

Sometimes I think about how extraordinary it is that eighteen years can disappear from someone's life so completely.

There are days when it feels impossible that I haven't seen you for two and a half years.

I think about all those years. Your childhoods. Your adolescence. The ordinary days. The difficult days. The celebrations. The arguments. The laughter. The moments that probably seemed insignificant at the time but became part of the fabric of our family.

I remember.

And I still sing the songs I wrote for you.

Sometimes I cry for you. Sometimes I wonder where you are. Sometimes I wonder what you are doing. Sometimes I wonder whether you ever think about me.

And sometimes I allow myself to remember the little boys who came into my life and lit it up.

Those memories are precious to me. I won't rewrite them because of what happened later. They were real. You were real to me. Our relationship was real to me. My love was real.

If You Ever Wonder Whether You Were Loved

If one day, years from now, you ever find yourself wondering whether I really loved you, I want you to have an answer.

Yes.

Absolutely.

Completely.

Imperfectly, because I am human. But genuinely.

I loved you when you were little. I loved you when you were difficult. I loved you when you were struggling. I loved you when you were angry. I loved you when you needed me. I loved you when you didn't.

And I love you now.

Nothing that has happened since can erase eighteen years of love. Nothing someone tells you can make those years unreal. And nothing you may have said or done can make me stop loving you.

I Would Welcome You Home

There is no condition attached to this.

There is no interrogation. There is no list of things you need to explain. There is no requirement that you apologise. There is no requirement that you agree with me. There is no requirement that you take sides. There is no requirement that you understand everything that happened.

If you ever want to see me again, you are welcome. If you ever want to talk, I will listen. If you ever want to sit quietly, we can sit quietly. If you don't know what to say, you don't have to say anything.

And if the only thing you can manage is to walk through the door and say, "Mum," that will be enough.

There will be no questions before there is love. The love comes first. It always did.

I Hope You Remember

I hope somewhere inside you there remains a memory of a woman who loved you.

A woman who saw three little boys arrive and felt privileged that they had become part of her life. A woman who wanted to protect you. A woman who sometimes didn't know how. A woman who made mistakes. A woman who wishes she had done more. But a woman whose love for you was never false.

I cannot change the past. I cannot go back to when you were six, seven or ten. I cannot go back and fight every battle I wish I had fought. I cannot undo the things that happened in our family.

But I can tell you the truth as I understand it now.

I am sorry. I am sorry I didn't fight harder. I am sorry I didn't recognise everything sooner. I am sorry I couldn't protect you from everything. I am sorry for the things I did not know how to do.

But I am not sorry that I loved you. I am not sorry that you were my sons. And I will never be sorry that you were part of my life.

I don't know whether our paths will ever cross again. I have had to learn to live with that uncertainty.

But I don't have to live with hatred. I don't have to live with resentment. I don't have to make you wrong in order to survive losing you.

I can simply love you.

And so I will.

Quietly. Without demanding anything from you. Without asking you to choose. Without asking you to carry my pain.

I will simply leave the door open. Not because I am waiting for you to rescue me. But because home should always have a door that can be opened.

If you ever come back through it, I will meet you there. No questions asked.

My boys,

I loved you then. I love you now. And whatever happens in the years ahead, I will always love you.

Mum