By Rhonda Fitzgerald-Hunter
The dinners that never happened.
The calls that never came.
The walks that stayed as daydreams,
waiting, empty, unnamed.
The bonding you imagined,
the closeness you deserved—
a promise spoken softly,
a promise left unheard.
You’re grieving what he wanted,
or said he meant to give.
A future sketched in warm tones
that he never let you live.
And it hurts like hell to carry
a hope that keeps on breaking.
Because he wasn’t just “your son”—
he was your life in the making.
The child you built your world around.
The one you learned to survive for.
The one you shielded with your body—
the one you’d still die for.
The child who kept you sleepless,
whose pain became your own.
A heartbeat you protected
even when you stood alone.
And though he drifts in distance,
and though he leaves you undone—
a mother’s love stays tethered
long after the child has run.
Rhonda Fitzgerald-Hunter 