Here we stand — on the edge of something new, something unknown. It feels like only yesterday I held a tiny bundle of warmth and wonder in my arms, and now... 21 years have passed. That bundle of joy, all grown up now, standing tall, finding his wings and preparing to fly.

I had dreamed about this day for years — imagined a celebration so full of light and laughter it would echo in his heart forever. A grand send-off into adulthood. I wanted everything to be perfect for him. And yet, when the day arrived, I was overwhelmed by something I hadn’t expected: sorrow. A deep ache that whispered, "You’ve missed too much."

The truth is, the last few years have been heavy. Life happened in ways I hadn’t prepared for. And somewhere along the way, it felt like I lost my boy — not in body, but in closeness, in connection.

Lately, I’ve come to see things I didn’t want to face before. If I’m honest, I’ve failed my boys in many ways. Not for lack of love — no, I’ve loved them fiercely, with every fibre of who I am. But love needs to be felt, not just declared. And for too long, I was emotionally absent.

I didn’t have the tools. I didn’t have the guidance. I carried wounds I never learnt how to name, let alone heal. And in my own pain, I buried myself in work. I wore productivity like armour, thinking it made me strong. But all it did was make me distant. And those years — those sacred, formative years — slipped through my fingers.

Hurt people hurt people. I see that now. And my own hurt created an ache in them too — scars they didn’t ask for, pain they didn’t deserve.

If I could do it over, I would. I’d hold them longer. I’d sit with their feelings instead of rushing to fix or ignore. I’d laugh more, listen better and be present in ways that matter most. But I can’t rewrite the past.

What I can do is own it. Ask forgiveness. And pray — really pray — that they will find healing in time. That they’ll find love, happiness, peace. That when life takes them far, they’ll always know the way back home. Not just to a place, but to the arms of parents who are still learning, still loving, still here.

And maybe, just maybe, that will be enough.