The Lesson I Refuse to Pass Down

There’s a part of me that wonders if his mum has started trying harder—not for me, but for him.
And honestly? I’m okay with that.

Because recently, I’ve come to realize:
I didn’t cut my mother out of my life out of bitterness.
I did it as a message to my son.

A quiet, steady declaration:
“You do not have to keep people in your life just because they share your blood.”

What matters is how they treat you.
Especially when you’re young.
Especially when you need them most.
And especially when you don’t yet have the words to ask for what you need.

By drawing that boundary, I taught Victor something my younger self never learned:
That love isn’t measured by words or titles or empty gestures.
It’s measured by how safe you feel in someone’s presence.
By whether they see you. Hear you. Hold you.

And so maybe—just maybe—he’s watching.
Watching me choose self-respect over guilt.
Watching me protect peace over performance.
Watching me stand up and say:
“This ends with me.”

I don’t know what his mother will do with that.
But I know what I’ve done.

And that, I hope, is the lesson he carries forward:
That you get to choose who stays in your life.
That people must earn the right to stay.
And that loving yourself sometimes means letting go of the ones who couldn’t love you right.

Not in revenge.
Not in hate.
But in truth.

For him.
For me.
For the child in me who needed someone to finally say, enough.