21 Letters – #11 Glenn
You came to me
before I had learned
how to carry even my own name
with certainty.
We were just kids,
your father and I.
Still tripping over our own edges,
still mistaking fear for failure,
love for luck.
And then,
you were there
a tiny heartbeat beneath my ribs,
growing while I was still growing,
asking nothing,
yet changing everything.
I won’t pretend I wasn’t afraid.
Some nights,
I curled around the weight of you
and wept,
asking the universe if I was enough,
if I could be enough.
But then,
you came into this world,
red-faced and perfect,
wrapped in the raw wonder
of first breaths.
And when they placed you in my arms,
something ancient lit up inside me:
a fire,
a vow,
a promise whispered from my bones.
There is nothing I will not do for you.
From that moment,
I became
a woman reborn,
working late into nights of the soul,
sifting through the wreckage
to build something soft,
something strong,
for you to grow in.
I got healthy.
I got honest.
I looked in the mirror
and chose to become
the kind of mother
your eyes could be proud of.
You...
you are my finest work.
The best pieces of me
and the truest parts of him –
your father’s calm,
his steady grace,
my fire,
my stubborn ache for more.
In you,
everything we got right
blooms.
You laugh,
and the world feels new again.
You speak,
and I learn something holy.
You sleep,
and I thank every star
that I was chosen
to love you first.
You saved me
without knowing,
just by being.
My compass,
my cause,
my second chance
to become
the kind of woman
I only dreamed I could be.
And I will spend my life
loving you louder,
better,
truer,
the way you deserve.
Forever and always,
my heart in your hands,
Mom.