He Needed to Know I’d Still Love Him

Last night I had a conversation with Darren.

He was sitting on a couch, one I didn’t recognize, and I was standing across the room from him. There was this distance between us, not huge, but present. And I could tell right away that something was weighing on him. He wanted to tell me something. But he was afraid.

Afraid that if he said it, I wouldn’t love him anymore.

I’m his mom. There is nothing, and I mean nothing, that could ever change that. So I told him. I reassured him the way moms do, the way I hope he always knew I would, with everything I had. Whatever it is, it doesn’t matter. I love you. That’s not going anywhere.

The conversation was short. A minute, maybe two. And then he was gone.

I woke up sitting with this mix of things. Grateful I got to see him, even like that. Grateful he came, or that my mind went to him, or however you want to explain what dreams are. But also left with this ache, because the conversation ended before he could actually say it. Before he could get the words out. He knew I loved him, I made sure of that, but the thing itself, the thing he’s been holding, I still don’t know what it is.

And I think it’s the missing piece.

Since Darren died, there’s been this part of the story I can’t quite reach. Something that feels just out of frame, something that I sense would help everything click into place. Not to assign blame, not to rewrite what happened, just to understand. Grief is so much harder when it comes with unanswered questions, and I’ve been carrying this particular one for a while now.

Last night felt like getting close.

He knows he’s loved. I need him to know that, wherever he is. And when he’s ready to tell me the rest, I’ll be here. Still his mom. Still not going anywhere.