I never held you,
only met you once—
a blurry FaceTime smile
through the screen of someone breaking.

Your name still echoes
in the chambers of my heart.
I asked for pictures,
asked about your therapies,
asked if she missed you.

She said yes.
She said so much.
She said nothing at all
that could undo
the dark she kept choosing.

I offered her light.
A room.
A chance.
A future where you had a mother
who came back for you.

But she blurred the days
until stars and moon meant nothing.
She couldn't see you
through the fog.

I tried to be enough
for both of you—
enough to help her
see your little hands
as a lifeline,
not a burden.

But she let go.

I held on too long.
Not to her,
but to hope—
that you'd be her reason.
That love might dig her out
when logic couldn’t.

You were never the problem.
You were the light.
The small, glowing miracle
she left in the dark.

And still,
I think of you.
Jeremiah.
Jerbear.
Sweet boy with a story
written before you could speak it.

Maybe you’ll find me someday,
when you're older,
when the past starts to ache.

I’ll tell you
how I tried.
How your mother did love you—
in a way too bruised to be safe.
In a way too broken to hold on.

But I never stopped thinking
you were worth it.
And I still believe it now.