Sometimes I’m fine and I can look at everything that’s happened with detached logic. Sometimes I’m a blubbering mess.
I miss my boy so much it hurts. And not just the kid he was, I miss the adult he’ll never be.
Sometimes I wish it was someone else’s kid. I’d never wish this pain on anyone, but if I could go back and rearrange things, I’d make it someone else’s kid who did this so I could keep mine and watch from afar. Yes, I’m that mean.
In the end it is my kid and I can’t undo it. So I slog through.
Sometimes I’m fine. Sometimes I’m a blubbering mess.