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For You, Sam

Hi, my love.

I don’t know if you’ll ever read this. Maybe one day, when you’re older and want to know what your mama felt while we were apart. Or maybe this will just stay here — quiet, unread — like a message in a bottle written for you, but really, for me.

You’re in London now. You’re with your dad, and I know you’re safe. I know you’re held, cared for, loved. But I miss you in a way I didn’t know was possible.
It’s like part of me was left behind with you — the part that laughed at your little dances, that read you bedtime stories with a scratchy tired voice, that kissed your curls every morning.

There’s an emptiness in my days now.
In the mornings, when I don’t hear your little feet running around.
In the nights, when I roll over and expect to see your tiny face breathing soft in the dark.
Even my arms miss the weight of you.

And here I am, in Mexico, trying to find myself — or whatever’s left of me. I thought maybe distance would give me answers, but mostly it’s just questions.
Mostly it’s just missing you.

The hardest part of all this, Sam, is that I’ve never really felt like a good mother. Maybe one day I will. But right now, I just feel like someone who tried and stumbled. Someone who loved you more than anything, and still didn’t always get it right.

I wonder if you’ll remember me at this age — if you’ll remember how I whispered “I love you” into your hair, how I cried in the bathroom because I didn’t know what I was doing, how I tried to keep everything together even when I was quietly falling apart.

Sometimes I ask myself: Did I leave you? Or did I come here to learn how to love you better?

I don’t know the answer yet.

But I do know this — loving you has been the truest thing I’ve ever done. Even when I couldn’t love myself, I loved you.

And I miss you every single breath.