It was supposed to be small.
That's what I told myself afterward—like the word small could shrink the damage. Like scale mattered when it came to moments that children carry forever.
It was a school event.Or an appointment.Or a promise I made too confidently.
The details blur now, but the outcome doesn't.
I remember checking the clock and thinking I still had time. I always thought that. Time felt elastic then—stretching when I needed it, disappearing when I didn't. I told myself I would just finish one thing first. Just one more minute.
Minutes turned traitor.
When I finally looked up, the day had shifted without me. The light outside was wrong. My phone was wrong—missed calls, messages stacking like evidence. My chest tightened in a way that had nothing to do with fear and everything to do with knowing.
I was already too late.
I drove fast—but not fast enough to undo what had already happened. Every stop sign felt personal. Every red light an accusation. I rehearsed explanations I knew wouldn't matter.
When I arrived, it was over.
Chairs were stacked. Hallways emptied. The space where they had stood—waiting—was silent. I saw other parents laughing, hugging, gathering coats. I scanned faces desperately, hoping maybe they were just around the corner.
They weren't.
I found my child sitting alone.
Not crying.
That was the worst part.
They looked up when they saw me, and something behind their eyes dimmed just enough to break me. No anger. No yelling. Just acceptance.
"Oh," they said quietly. "You missed it."
I tried to speak. I tried to explain. I tried to apologize.
None of it landed.
They told me it was okay. That they knew I was busy. That they weren't mad. Each word felt like a weight added to my chest—because children don't learn how to soften disappointment on their own.
Someone teaches them that.
In the car, they stared out the window. I reached for them at a stoplight, but they leaned away—not rudely, not dramatically. Just instinctively.
That moment rewrote something between us.
At home, they showed me what I missed.
A paper.A sticker.Something small and precious.
They had saved it for me.
I smiled. I praised. I told them I was proud.
But pride after absence feels hollow. Like applause in an empty room.
That night, after they fell asleep, I sat on the floor outside their door and cried until my body hurt. Not because I missed an event—but because I saw, for the first time, how my addiction wasn't just taking things.
It was teaching my children how to expect disappointment from me.
Meth didn't steal that moment.
I handed it over.
And no amount of promises could give it back.