#m3ganedit

It was my fault. What happened yesterday was the last in a long line of failed attempts to be there when it mattered. I don't know what's wrong with me. I don't know why I could never connect with her. I can talk regulation policy in a room full of strangers for hours on end, but I can't have one meaningful conversation with my own child for more than ten seconds. And now she's gone. And I might never get another chance. Gemma, you haven't failed her. You were there. You saw everything. Let me tell you what I saw. I saw you wake up every day at 4AM staring at the ceiling, contemplating what the future holds for her. I watched you make homemade lunches with fresh-baked sourdough. I watched you cut your finger on that cheap knife you never had time to replace. I watched you help her with her homework, even though it always ended in a fight. And every night before you went to bed, I saw you watching her sleep before spending the next two hours googling adolescent psychology, corrective footwear, and the long-term effects of having too much sugar. Gemma, it's not a failure to feel guilt, or that you're not enough. It's part of the job. It's called being a mom.