Love, Mama: Day 1

9/12/2025:

Dear Mama,

Today is day 112 of us not speaking. It’s day 112 of round three of us not speaking. It’s day 112.

I am happy. And I am sad. And I am curious.

I’m sitting here working from home. The kids are upstairs in their bedrooms on their computers, attending class with peers and teachers they’ve known for years, now. There is music playing softly and the birds are happily singing along, foraging for food on the bottom of their cage. It feels…safe. Soft. Gentle. Warm. I feel love and joy. I did a good job, creating the environment in my home.

I am lonely. And I am isolated. And I am curious.

It’s lunchtime, and I want to call you and chat about nothing while I eat a salad or sip on some tea and sit in the sunshine for a few moments. I want to check in on your health and see if you’re doing okay. I want to tell you that I love you and hear you tell me the same, right back. I want to giggle over that stupid joke that nobody but the two of us ever thought was funny, remember? The one with the sign that said, Please, do not feed the bears…with a bear standing right next to the sign wearing a really bad deer costume holding his own sign: Trust me, I am not a bear.

I want to make plans to see you and the family again, eating together and catching up and playing epic games of monopoly, watching my kids hang out with their cousins and finally, finally get to know them and know what it feels like to have a family.

I am positive this will never happen. And I am angry. And I am curious.

I wonder if you miss me. I wonder if your heart is as broken as mine is. I wonder if you understand just how damaging isolation can be when one has no choice but to walk away from family. I wonder if you care.

I might be happy. And sad. But I am also proud of myself.

I am at peace.

I hope you are, too.

Love, Me

Dear Me,

Your home sounds lovely. It seems like, no matter what else is going on in your life, you have carved out a loving, beautiful and safe space for your family. That matters, more than you know.

As a mother myself, it is hard for me to imagine my children not being able to talk to me, or be at peace in my presence. To not feel safe when they are with me, or have to hide any part of who they are.

To cut off all contact.

I can not imagine.

And yet, as much as I know we all set out to be the best version of a parent that we know how to be—we still make mistakes. Sometimes, horrible mistakes. Sometimes, irrevocable mistakes that place a barrier between us so high—the climb to get over it seems insurmountable.

I do not know why you and your mother are not speaking, and it doesn’t matter. We all make our decisions in this life, and as adults, we are responsible for our own safety and happiness. We are responsible to acknowledge what causes us harm and figure out how to walk away from it, and it sounds like you have done just that, so I trust that the decision to go no-contact was made for the safety and happiness of you and your own children.

I’m proud of you, too. And even if you can’t, I hold hope in my heart that you and your children may one day be reconnected with your family, laughing and eating and playing monopoly and loving each other, the best you can.

You are not alone. I’m here, with you, sending you hugs so tight you would struggle to break free from my arms. I am always up for a chat, some tea, and warm sunshine. As you continue to build community for you and your children, remember that. That you are never alone. That there is always love there, available for you, with new jokes, lots of laughter, and joy. Sheer joy.

May tomorrow be your day 1.

Love,

Mama