I have so many regrets. I regret not being able to save you before you left. I regret not reaching out to you sooner. I regret not building a stronger rapport with you in those first 2.5 weeks. I regret not trying harder to make you choose us back.
You see, when you first left—I started having nightmares. In my dreams, I found out that you had no one to count on before I even asked around. I knew you’d left before I even asked. I felt it was God calling me to take a chance on you, and I was willing.
I started to worry about your well-being, worry about your safety, worry that you weren’t being treated or paid fairly, worried that you weren’t being taken care of. I was worried others may take advantage of your need to survive, of your will to work, and even of your youth. I still worry.
I lost sleep—I mean I lost hours and hours of sleep. I’d wake up in the middle of the night scared for you, praying you were well. I cried. A lot. Daily even. In fact, I’m crying now. I’ve cried so many tears because I feel like the system failed you, and there’s nothing I can do about it; I feel like I failed you.
You know, I pictured you in our lives—in our family. You fit so well. My kids would have loved you; my dogs would have loved you; my husband would have loved you. That’s another thing: where I am one to always see the best, my husband is normally more skeptical. But not this time. He was willing, he was ready, and he was excited. So, how could this not be a God thing?
But I pictured you in ours lives. I made plans to wait for you to go grocery shopping to make sure I bought stuff that you liked too. We made plans for you to have your own room and own bathroom. I planned to take you to workouts to help with your soccer skills. I envisioned taking you on our family vacations. I even started envisioning you in our family pictures. And just as I do for my own kids, I started to dream and make plans for your future. Even my dad started asking around some mechanic schools for you for after high school. I talked to our lawyer friend so that things could be quick and easy when you returned. We couldn’t wait for you to return.
But you won’t return. You didn’t choose us. And while my heart is heavy and aching, I cannot force you to choose us back. I cannot force you to know how much your education will matter in the future. I cannot force you to not work, and I cannot force you to allow us to help make your life easier. I cannot force you not to do this on your own. I cannot force you to want us too.
I’ve cried and I’ve prayed. I prayed that God would make me His vessel and use me to show you His love, His kindness, His goodness. I prayed that communication would come easy. I prayed that we could be all that you needed us to be. I wanted a chance to show you how great our country can be, how great a family could be, and how great life could be. I wanted to give you the chance to be a kid for once, the chance to let someone else worry about your finances and meals, and the chance to have support, feel wanted, and be loved.
Even though we aren’t what you were looking for, I continue to pray for you, your well-being, and your safety. I pray that you are treated fairly and paid fairly. I pray that no one takes advantage of your youth, of your will to work, or of your need to survive. I pray you have all that you need, and I pray that you find what you’re looking for. ♥️ We still choose you, kid.
Stay safe and be careful out there.