I still feel guilty about my mom

I don't know why I'm writing this to you people. I guess I just need to get it out. It's been eating me alive for years, and I haven't told anyone. Not my wife, not my kids, not my therapist. Nobody. Maybe because it makes me sound like a terrible person. And maybe I am.

It's about my mom. She died five years ago. Cancer. Lung cancer, even though she never smoked a day in her life. It was brutal. She went from being a strong, independent woman to…nothing. Just a shell of herself, hooked up to machines, barely able to talk. It was awful to watch. Awful.

And I feel guilty. So, so guilty. Because I wasn't there enough.

I mean, I was there. I took time off work. I visited her in the hospital. I brought her flowers and magazines and tried to make her laugh. But it wasn't enough. I know it wasn't.

See, I was so caught up in my own life. My job was demanding. My kids were little. My wife was stressed. There was always something. A soccer game, a school play, a deadline at work, a leaky faucet. Always something that needed my attention. And my mom… she understood. She always understood.

"Don't worry about me," she'd say. "You have your own family now. You need to focus on them."

And I did. I focused on them. Maybe too much.

I remember one time, she called me. She was having a bad day. The chemo was making her sick, and she was feeling lonely. She just wanted to talk. But I was in the middle of something. I can't even remember what it was now. Some stupid work thing, probably. I told her I was busy and that I'd call her back later.

I never called her back.

She died a few weeks later. And I never got to have that conversation with her. I never got to tell her how much I loved her. How much I appreciated everything she had done for me. How sorry I was for being such a shitty son.

After she died, I went through her things. It was… hard. Really hard. Everything smelled like her. Her perfume, her lotion, her cigarettes (from when she was younger). All of it was just… her.

In her bedside table, I found a little notebook. It was filled with her handwriting. Recipes, phone numbers, grocery lists. Just everyday stuff. But then, on the last page, I found something that made my heart stop.

It was a list. A list of all the things she was grateful for. And my name was on it.

"My son," she wrote. "I am so proud of him. He is a good man, a good husband, and a good father. I am so lucky to have him in my life."

I lost it. I just sat there on her bed and sobbed. I cried like a baby. Because even though I felt like I had failed her, she still saw the good in me. She still loved me.

But it doesn't make the guilt go away. It's always there. A constant ache in my chest. A reminder of what I didn't do. What I should have done.

I know I can't change the past. I know I can't bring her back. But I wish… God, I wish I could have just one more conversation with her. One more chance to tell her how much she meant to me.

I try to be a better son to my own kids. I try to be more present. More attentive. More loving. I don't want them to ever feel the way I feel now.

But the guilt… it's always there. A shadow that follows me wherever I go.

I hope one day it will fade. I hope one day I can forgive myself. But right now, it feels impossible.

I don't know what I expect from writing this. Maybe just to get it off my chest. Maybe to hear that I'm not alone. Maybe to get some kind of absolution. I don't know. I just needed to tell someone. Anyone.

Thank you for listening. Or, you know, reading.

I hope writing this gets easier. I hope that as time moves on I can reconcile my faults and her love for me. Maybe that's the way it always is. Maybe we think more about our own mistakes instead of how we were perceived.