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For you, Momma

 I’ve tried so many times to figure out how to put her into words—my mom. But parts of her live in me in ways words can’t always reach.

Not all memories come clearly. Trauma fogs things. But love? That breaks through. Hers for me. Mine for her.

She had a huge heart—always helping people. Legal forms, hospital rides, late-night talks—she showed up. Even if I didn’t understand why. Heck, I often didn’t. I even resented it, wondering why others got her support before I did. Selfish? Probably. Human? Definitely.

Now, I get it. And while I can’t tell her that—I can live it. Every day, I try to do what she did. And do the parts she never got the chance to.

Funny how I catch myself repeating her old favorite: “Do as I say, not as I do.” I use it with my kids now. Legacy’s strange like that.

One thing she never did? She never called me a failure. Not even when I was drowning in addiction. She just quietly stood by, praying I’d surface.

She was diagnosed with cancer during my rock bottom. Somehow, I got sober before she passed. We had two months. Two sacred, healing months. Sleepovers. Hot chocolate. Movie nights. Me taking care of her. She seeing me clean.

On Christmas Eve, we had our final Facetime. I cried. She cried. I told her:

“Mom, I love you. I’m sorry. You can go be with Ellie Rose now. I’ll be okay.”

Then I sang—something I rarely did. Dust in the Wind. Her song. Ellie’s song. Our goodbye.

And I said: “It’s okay Momma… I’m your daughter.”

Those words hit differently now.

After she passed, I read her unsent messages to me. I saw her hopes. Her faith. Her belief. And I’ve grown into the woman she knew I could be.

Better late than never.

Now, I live like she’s watching. Cheering me on. I carry her voice in mine.

I am someone she would be proud of today.


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