Love That Holds Without Holding On



There isn’t a day that goes by where I don’t think of them.

Some of the clearest, warmest memories I have are from those early days—small kids with big eyes, tiny hands clumsily scooping rice and scattering tortilla chips like confetti, completely enamored with their balloon animals. We were in Midway, eating at Tarahumara, and afterward, they each took turns getting their faces painted by the local clown. I can still picture how still they sat, completely mesmerized, proud of their designs when it was done. Those moments are etched in my mind—not because it was dramatic, but because it was real. Joyful. Pure.

They were so little—maybe two, maybe four—but even then, they carried a kind of quiet magic. Just being near them made me feel like I had a purpose.

That love didn’t vanish with time. It didn’t fade with silence. It’s still here—steady and stubborn.

A lot went wrong. Maybe from the outside, it looks like I moved on. But the truth is, I just learned to carry the weight differently. The love and connection I once felt? Still alive. Not loud anymore. Doesn’t scream or beg. But it’s there.

Let This Be Known — Without Question

Overnight, my children lost their father, their home, their school, and any sense of safety or stability. They did nothing to deserve that.

I don’t know everything they went through. I wasn’t there for the aftermath. But there are parts I can imagine — and it breaks my heart they had to endure any of it.

If they ever feel abandoned… if they ever wrestle with the ache of rejection or confusion or grief—
and if it helps them cope to direct some of that pain toward me—
I will take it. Willingly.

If it helps to be angry at me,
If it helps to believe I failed them,
If it helps to say it out loud, to yell it, or carry it like a shield—
then let it fall on me. All of it.

Because that’s what love does. It absorbs. It endures. It refuses to give the pain back.
If they needed someone to be the target so they didn’t have to carry that weight alone, I’d rather it be me.
I would rather bleed than let them carry wounds that weren’t meant to be theirs.

This isn’t guilt. And it’s not weakness.
It’s what remains when you care deeply—quiet, steady, and still here, even when shut out.

Not every story ends with resolution. Not every wound gets closure.
But that doesn’t mean the love wasn’t real. Or that it disappeared with time and absence.

They may never know how much space they still take up in my heart. And that’s okay.
This isn’t about rewriting history. It isn’t about redemption.
And it isn’t written in hopes of anything in return.

It’s just about saying the truth out loud.

There are things you say, not to be heard, but because they’re true.

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