The Pattern Ends With Me

The water runs hot—

too hot—

but I stay.

Because sometimes pain

is the only thing that feels real.

Steam curls around my face

like memories that won’t let go.

I sink lower,

pretend the warmth is a hug,

the kind that used to find me

when I was small

and safe

and someone else’s child.

Now I am grown.

A mother.

A heartbeat someone else calls home.

But tonight—

tonight I feel like an orphan again.

Like the child inside me

still waits at the window

for someone who’s never coming back.

I cry until the water cools.

Cry until I’m praying

without even knowing the words.

“God… please.

Please hear me.

Please stop this shaking,

this breaking.”

My chest aches—

like my heart’s trying to outrun

the weight of what it can’t change.

Death.

Addiction.

The echo of longing

that keeps coming back

like a wave that refuses to die.

I can’t change any of that.

But I can change me.

Because there’s a boy

sleeping down the hall

who calls me Mom—

who looks at me

the way I used to look at them.

Eyes full of trust,

tiny hands believing

I can hold up the world.

So I have to.

Even when I’m tired.

Even when I’m drowning.

Even when the water feels safer

than the air.

I breathe.

Again.

And again.

And again.

Because the pattern—

this ache,

this legacy of loss—

it ends with me.

My son will never learn grief

as a second language.

He will never mistake silence

for love.

He will never wonder

if he’s enough to make someone stay.

I rise from the bath,

skin flushed,

heart still trembling—

but I’m alive.

And tonight,

that is enough.