Lately, I’ve been feeling the guilt again.
The kind that creeps in when my son asks for more time with me — and I can’t give it.

Not because I don’t want to.
Because I physically can’t handle it right now.
Not while holding everything else. Not while trying to rebuild myself from the inside out.

And that guilt? It lands hard.
Because I know what it’s like to feel emotionally abandoned by a parent.
I know what it’s like to be unseen.

And I would never want him to feel that — not from me.

But here’s the truth:
I’m not withholding love.
I’m not failing him.
I’m protecting both of us by not giving what I don’t have.

Because if I give too much now and break, he loses everything.
So instead, I give him what’s real: honesty, presence, protection, and the truth that he can always talk to me.

That’s more powerful than time alone.

There’s more guilt.
Guilt that I haven’t built the life I wanted yet.
Guilt that he has to spend time in a home where he’s often ignored.
Guilt that I chose someone who was never emotionally equipped to co-parent.
Guilt that her new partner — a man who doesn’t even see his own children — now sits in a position of influence in my son’s world.

And then the deeper fear.
The one that every protective parent holds but never wants to speak:

What if something happens and I’m not there?

But even in that fear, I know this:
My son knows I will always believe him.
He knows my love is steady.
He knows that with me, he is safe.

I haven’t failed.
I’m rebuilding in real time — and he’s watching.

He’s watching me struggle, yes.
But he’s also watching me tell the truth.
He’s watching me protect what’s sacred.
He’s watching me stay — when so many people leave.

So no, the guilt isn’t proof I’ve failed.

It’s proof I care.
Deeply. Fiercely. Relentlessly.
And caring in a broken world is already a kind of revolution.

I’m doing my best.
And one day, that will be the foundation for his freedom.