I said it out loud today.

I wish I had a mother.

Not just someone who gave birth to me. Not someone who gave me money. But a mother. A soft place. A protector. A mirror. A guide.

And I don’t. I never have.

I think part of me has known this for a long time. But there’s another part — the childish part — who still hopes. Still believes maybe this time she’ll change. That maybe the next message will be different. That she’ll soften. That she’ll care.

But every time I engage, I end up disappointed. Again.

It’s a quiet kind of heartbreak. Not the explosive kind. Just this slow ache that shows up when no one’s watching.

My therapist helped me see it clearly today — how I’ve used therapy to fill the mother-gap. How it’s not shameful, it’s necessary. Survival, even. And how the grief of it doesn’t mean I’m weak. It means I’m finally being honest.

I can feel how much I still want a mother.
I just don’t expect it from her anymore.
That’s a shift.

I don’t need to pretend it doesn’t hurt.
I just don’t need to keep hoping where there’s no hope.

And maybe — eventually — I can become the mother I needed. For myself. For my son.
One gentle moment at a time.