Through My Eyes: Co-Parenting with People Who Never Showed Up
I’ve been sitting on this for a while.
Not because I didn’t have the words—grief has a language of its own—but because I didn’t want to sound like I was attacking anyone. I never wanted to be the kind of mother who erased the people my children were supposed to love. But when silence keeps echoing where presence should’ve been… you have to tell the truth. For your peace. For your kids. For the version of you that carried it all alone and still showed up with love in her chest.
This one’s personal. And if you’ve ever had to co-parent with someone who disappeared, while everyone else praised them for showing up once a year? This one’s for you too.
The Ones Who Missed It
There’s a kind of grief that’s invisible. It doesn’t come with caskets or sympathy cards. It lives quietly, buried inside a mother who showed up every single day… while the people who were supposed to help her build this family didn’t even show up for the easy parts.
I never wanted to strip my children away from anyone. Not even when the people I chose refused to be consistent. I didn’t want to be the gatekeeper. I didn’t want to explain absence. I didn’t want to carry disappointment in one hand and loyalty in the other.
But it kept happening.
And I kept watching my children shrink in the silence of people who claimed them when it was convenient—but never when it mattered.
The Provider Politician
She shows up—technically. She comes to the big events: the honor roll ceremonies, the graduations, the staged moments where cameras flash and pride is performative. She’ll be in the seat, maybe even clap the loudest. But then she disappears.
Not physically. She’s just… not there.
She’s not the parent who takes them shopping. She’s not there for late-night talks or spontaneous joy. She’s not someone who sits on the edge of the bed just to ask how their heart is doing.
She provides the basics. And in her mind, that’s enough. She doesn’t engage. Doesn’t lean in. Doesn’t soften.
She tells the world she’s a mother. And technically, she is. But she’s not present. Not emotionally. Not energetically. She’s more like a public figure in their life than an active participant.
I used to think maybe she just didn’t know how. But the truth is—she doesn’t try. And that hurts more than if she had just been honest about her limitations.
She keeps her distance and calls it independence. Makes them do things alone and calls it strength. But all it really is… is absence. Dressed up in routine and rationalized by trauma.
And while she stands tall at every public milestone, she misses the everyday magic. The quiet check-ins. The grocery store chats. The eye contact over breakfast. The actual mothering.
The Absent Advocate
She didn’t just disappear—she abandoned.
No money. No flights. No effort. She didn’t show up for birthdays, graduations, school events, sick days, or the small moments in between that shape a child’s memory of who was really there.
She’d text. She’d call—when it was convenient. But that’s not showing up. That’s emotional breadcrumbing. And when I moved us away—to survive financially and emotionally because her family offered no support and we were barely getting by—she tried to flip the script.
Suddenly she was the one being hurt. Suddenly she was blindsided. Suddenly she had feelings about a family she never even truly claimed.
But the truth? She had already moved on.
Working two jobs. Busy being a chef. Moved the new girl into our home. Built a life, curated a picture-perfect narrative— one that had nothing to do with the family she left behind.
She had time to take a trip to Puerto Rico. But a trip to visit her kids? A surprise visit to show she cared? That was too much. Always too expensive. Too inconvenient. Too hard.
She never made the effort. Never took the chance to just be there. Instead, she’d say, “Ask the kids what they want,” like teenagers are going to hand you their emotional needs on a silver platter. Instead of calling me, their mother—the one holding everything together— she hid behind indecision and charm, flipping the burden of connection onto children.
Maybe it’s the emotional slipperiness—the charming words that kept me doubting my reality. She’d echo my pain back to me, saying exactly what I needed to hear, but her actions never matched. The promises always hollow. The reality always blurry.
And when the silence finally caught up with her? She said, “I’m sorry. I didn’t show up. I can try now.”
But it was too late.
Because love without action is manipulation. Because saying the right thing while doing nothing is still abandonment. Because a plane ticket isn’t too much when it’s for people you love—unless you just don’t love them enough.
She made her choices. And now I make mine. I choose honesty. I choose peace. I choose never again.
And If I’m Being Honest…
There’s a part of me that’s relieved I can’t have any more children.
Not because I didn’t love being a mother. But because I’m tired. Because I’ve lived multiple lifetimes in one body. Because I’ve spent years giving everything I had to people who couldn’t even stay long enough to witness the weight I was carrying.
Sometimes, I feel like I failed them. Not because I wasn’t there—but because I chose people who weren’t. Because I thought love was enough. Because I thought if I held it down hard enough, they’d show up. Because I thought if I created a soft place for all of us to land, we’d stay there together.
But the truth is… I was the only one trying to build a home.
Even when I couldn’t buy the house. Even when I had to live 30 minutes away. I still made Sunday dinners. Still meal prepped. Still drove across counties just to give them stability.
I did it all—working three jobs, running on fumes, grieving my own childhood wounds. Fighting through cancer.
Yeah—cancer.
I parented while fighting for my life. While doctors whispered realities I didn’t have time to absorb. And still—I showed up.
I didn’t always get it right. But I never stopped trying.
And now? I’m honest enough to say I grieved the life I imagined while surviving the one I had.
But what I’ll never do? Is question whether or not I was enough.
I was everything. Even when I didn’t feel like it. Even when no one saw it. Even when I was breaking.
I still showed up. And that’s what made this family real.
✨Reflection: You are not bitter for telling the truth. You are not wrong for grieving the fantasy. You are not alone.
💬Journal Prompt: What version of your family did you hope to build—and how are you still honoring that vision?
🎧Listen While Reading:
“Mother’s Love” – Jessie Reyez
“Better Days” – Victoria Monét
🕯Affirmation: “I release the responsibility of carrying the weight others chose not to hold. I showed up, and that is enough.”
Leave a comment if this resonated. Share this with someone who needs the reminder: we’re allowed to say the hard parts out loud.
