Four years of silence and I still send birthday cards to my ex’s address. Still write letters they’ll probably never see. Still keep my Facebook open even though mutual friends post photos of them that slice through me like glass.
People ask why I put myself through it. My therapist Kate says there’s a difference between leaving the door open and setting yourself on fire to keep the light on. Some days I’m not sure I know the difference anymore.
But here’s what I’ve learned about walking this tightrope:
I moved closer, not further away. When the court gave him everything and I lost the house, I could’ve started fresh in Scotland near my sister. Instead I found a flat twenty minutes from their school. Close enough that when they’re ready, I’m here. Far enough that I’m not lurking.
I keep one social media account public - just Facebook, basic posts about my life. If they ever google me, I want them to see I’m still their mum. Still here. Still proud of the little things they used to share with me. But I had to block most of his family. Self-preservation isn’t selfish.
Letters go in a box after I post them. Every birthday, Christmas, start of term - I write what’s in my heart, send it to his address, then put a copy away. One day maybe they’ll want to read four years of love letters from their mum. Or maybe not. But I’ll have proof I never stopped trying.
The hardest part is the silence after. Sending love into a void and getting nothing back. But I’ve stopped checking for responses constantly. I write, I send, I walk away. It’s not about getting something back anymore - it’s about being the mother I want them to remember me as.
Some days the door feels impossibly heavy to hold open. Other days I imagine them walking through it and my whole chest fills with light.
I’m still here. Still their mum. That’s what matters.
I write letters too. Seven years now, every month without fail. Started addressing them to my ex’s place but switched to my daughter’s name at the school when I realized she might be checking her own post by now - she’d be fifteen.
Like you, I keep copies. Three ring binders full of letters she may never read. But they’re there. Proof that not a month went by when her dad didn’t think of her, didn’t have something to tell her about the world or ask about hers. Sometimes I read the old ones back and it’s like watching myself slowly learn how to love someone I can’t reach.
That image you painted - them walking through the door and your chest filling with light. God, I felt that. It’s what keeps me writing even when the silence gets so heavy I can barely lift the pen.
This could be me writing four years ago. Actually, it WAS me writing four years ago.
I did exactly the same thing when Jake and Sophie were 7 — moved to a rental in Neutral Bay instead of going back to Perth where mum kept saying I should “start fresh.” God, I hated that phrase. Fresh? Nothing about losing your kids is fresh. But like you, I needed to be close enough that when they were ready, I wasn’t a plane ride away. I still drive past their old primary school sometimes and wonder if they’re at the same one or if their dad moved them somewhere else entirely.
The letters… Christ, the letters. I have a whole drawer of copies now. Four years of birthdays, first days of school I wasn’t there for, Christmas mornings that felt like the world had ended. I used to obsess over whether they even made it to the kids or if his new wife just binned them. My friend Sarah finally said something that stuck: “You’re not writing those letters for them right now, Em. You’re writing them for the woman you want to be when they come back.” Because they will come back, right? That’s what we tell ourselves on the good days.
The Facebook thing hits different when it’s twins. Seeing them together in photos, knowing they have each other but not me — it’s this weird mix of relief and devastation. At least they’re not alone in this mess.
You’re doing the hardest job in the world. Holding space for children who might not even know you’re doing it.
This really speaks to me. I’m three years in and still doing the birthday cards too - same thing, sending them to his address knowing they might never reach my kids but unable to stop myself.
What you said about your therapist Kate really hit home. Mine talks about something similar - how staying present for them doesn’t mean we have to disappear ourselves. I’ve had to learn that the hard way. There was a point about eighteen months in where I was checking his Instagram constantly, torturing myself with glimpses of their lives without me. Had to step back from all that.
The letters in a box thing is brilliant. I write too but I’d never thought of keeping copies. There’s something powerful about having that record, isn’t there? Proof that we never gave up loving them, even when everything felt impossible. I think I’m going to start doing that.