Sometimes, the most painful thing isn’t someone leaving—it’s them staying and still not showing up where it matters.
My oldest son’s father hit rock bottom not long ago. He lost his place, ended up on the streets, and eventually landed in the hospital after weeks without sleep—hallucinating, broken, and alone. Not one of his so-called friends stepped up for him. No one opened their door. They left him to figure it out on his own.
After long, difficult conversations with my youngest kids’ father, we decided to let him stay with us. It wasn’t an easy decision. It came with rules: get a job, contribute, pay rent, and most importantly—be present for your son.
At first, he did little things here and there. He cooked some meals, did the dishes (though often half-heartedly), took care of the dogs, even helped with our younger children (which I am grateful for), but the truth was—it always felt like the bare minimum. The job never came, and the effort to find one seemed almost non-existent. Most days, he was drinking or hanging out, floating through time like nothing was expected of him.
When he finally did land a job, it lasted three days. Drinking and ego got in the way—again. And when I asked why he wouldn’t try harder, he told me he didn’t need to. That years ago, when he helped take care of me, he thought that meant he was owed something now. Like past choices excused current failures.
He stayed with us for nearly a year. A whole year of broken promises, missed responsibilities, and excuses. And while he didn’t ignore our son completely, his priorities were painfully clear. When he reaches out to “visit,” it’s not to see his child, but to see the dog.
Let that sink in.
Our 13-year-old son watched all of this unfold. He’s old enough to understand what’s going on, but still young enough for it to sting in ways he can’t fully express. He noticed every missed opportunity, every drink instead of a job application, every time his father chose the dog over him. And now he’s left holding that hurt.
He often cries about it. His behavior has changed. He is not the same, and my heart hurts for him. I see it most in the quiet moments—in the questions he doesn’t ask, in the way he shrugs things off like they don’t matter. But they do. They matter more than anything. Because no child should ever have to wonder why they weren’t enough for their parent to try harder.
The day finally came when I had to ask him to leave. Somewhat out of anger, but mostly out of love—for our son, for our family, for our peace. You can’t build a stable home on top of someone else’s chaos, and we had a far share of our own. But I refuse to let my child think that this is what fatherhood is supposed to look like.
I know that I am far from perfect, I’ve made many mistakes, and I often question myself as a mother, more times than I should— but for my son, I took accountability. I vowed to be better, to do better! Not only because he deserves it, but because he is worth it, and I love him.
This story isn’t about resentment. It’s about truth. About boundaries. About a mother doing what she had to do to protect her son’s heart, even when it hurt.
To my son: I see the way you keep pushing forward. I see how you carry yourself with strength even when you feel disappointed. I’m proud of the way you love, even when it’s not returned the way you deserve. And I promise you this—one person’s failure to show up doesn’t define your worth. You are more than enough.
We’re choosing peace. We’re choosing healing. And above all, we’re choosing you.