Mom,
This year wasn’t the same without you. I felt your absence in the small, ordinary moments — the ones we used to share without thinking. The mornings were quieter. The days were longer. And the world felt a little less steady without your voice in it.
I missed our rituals — the salon days, the music, the way we could sit together without needing to fill the air with anything but presence. You had a way of making even the cold Milwaukee days feel warm. You carried your 87 years with humor and grit, and I still feel that strength when I think of you.
There’s something I never told you, because I didn’t want to burden you or dim your peace. While I was caring for you, I was also going through the worst betrayal and cruelty I’ve ever experienced. Leo and the people around him — the flying monkeys — were tearing me down in ways I still struggle to understand.
And here is the truth I hid from you:
I would tell you a lie and build Leo up, hoping you could see him the way I once did. I wanted you to believe in the version of him I believed in — the gentle moments, the softness, the hope. But I couldn’t see the full picture then. I couldn’t see how mentally unstable he truly was. I couldn’t see that the same person I defended, protected, and loved was also the one who left me to die — emotionally, financially, and spiritually.
In Leo’s world, everything was about his PTSD and his survival. His Monkeys were the same. All needy and narcissistic. There was no room for anyone else’s reality. No space for my pain, my needs, or even my truth. I was expected to absorb everything, carry everything, and disappear into the background so his crisis could stay center stage. And I didn’t want you to know that I was being treated that way. You deserved gentleness, not the weight of my suffering.
Being with you grounded me. You were the one place where I still felt like myself — seen, steady, real. I hope you know how much I loved being there with you during those last twelve months. I don’t carry regret. Only gratitude. We did the best we could for each other, and that’s a rare kind of peace.
There were moments this year when I reached for you without thinking — to tell you something funny, to share a memory, to ask for your wisdom. And then I remembered. And the remembering hurt, but it also reminded me how lucky I was to have a mother whose absence could be felt this deeply.
I’m still learning how to live in a world where you’re not physically here. But you’re woven into everything — the way I care for others, the way I host people, the way I try to bring dignity and warmth into the room. You taught me that.
I miss you, Mom.
But I carry you with me.
And I’m still trying to make you proud.
© Jaime Pearson 2026. All rights reserved.
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