73 - One Small Step

After I came to terms with the truth

that the young boy I knew would never return

I began the slow work of letting go. 

I allowed the new him to exist 

without forcing him back into the shape of the boy I once carried in memory. 

It was a cruel, heart‑wrenching realization

every recollection was of that bright, 

laughing child, 

and to accept that he was gone was to bury a part of myself alongside him.

I unlocked the door of the cell I had built for him, 

a prison disguised as care, 

and I let him walk free. 

I sent him to learn English, 

a language that was not his own. 

It was a frightening decision

to surrender control, 

to watch him step into a world that might wound him, 

to wonder how much weight he could bear, 

how others would see him.

But I had to. 

Keeping him alive like a patient on life support was only prolonging his suffering. 

I had to accept that survival was not enough

that he needed to live, 

not merely be kept breathing.

It was one small step, 

but it carried the weight of consequence, 

a fragile gamble against silence, 

a door opening into the unknown.