We’re leaving for Latin America soon.
It’s something I’ve been planning for a long time—a fresh start, a different rhythm of life, a chapter rooted in peace, freedom, and presence with my kids.

The father of my two older boys knows we’re leaving.
He knows time is running out.
He knows this is one of his last opportunities to spend real, uninterrupted time with his children—maybe ever.

He was supposed to come this weekend.
Stay at my house. Be with the boys. Make memories.
He initially agreed.
Then he texted: “Actually I’ll just take them camping next weekend.”

He’s not coming.

And I know why.

He’s still drinking.

Even though he says he’s quit—except for “one relapse.”
Even though he says the doctor told him he’s “fine.”
Even though he says he doesn’t want to talk about dying because it’s “too depressing.”

I see the signs:

• Mood swings
• Slight tremors in his hands
• A swollen belly, despite saying he’s barely eating
• Canceling visits that would require him to be sober and present for more than a few hours

He doesn’t want to stay at my house because he knows he can’t drink here.
And he knows I’d notice if he tried.

So instead, he’s choosing to distance himself—from me, from the boys, from his final chances.

This is what addiction looks like in real time.

It’s not always dramatic or messy.
Sometimes, it’s a casual cancellation.
A last-minute text.
A missed weekend that no one else will remember—but your children will.

Sometimes, it’s choosing a bottle over your own sons when you know they’re about to move thousands of miles away. Sometimes, it’s giving up connection to preserve the lie that you’re still in control.

And if you’re reading this, and you’re with someone who has an addiction—you’ve probably lived this, too.

It hurts in ways most people won’t understand.

It’s not just about the drinking.
It’s about the disappearances—the emotional ones, the physical ones, the ones that happen when you need them most.
It’s about watching someone you once loved—or still love—miss the most important moments, not because they don’t care, but because they literally can’t show up.

Addiction rewires everything:

• Time becomes foggy.
• Priorities invert.
• Intimacy becomes terrifying.
• Presence feels impossible.

You think, “Surely they’ll show up for this. Surely they’ll make an exception.”
And then… they don’t.

What I’ve learned:

• You can’t fix it.
• You can’t love someone out of addiction.
• You can’t reason someone into recovery.
• And you can’t keep waiting for them to show up when they’ve already told you—in a hundred small ways—that they can’t.

So now I hold space for my boys.
I’m still helping their father prepare for death.
I’ve encouraged him to write letters and record videos. Planned the cremation. Scheduled the final photos.
But I’ve stopped waiting for him to change.

This weekend, we’ll be here.
He won’t.

And that will be the memory.
Not because I pushed him away.
But because he never stepped forward when it mattered most.

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If you’re walking through something like this—if you’re sitting in the quiet heartbreak of watching someone disappear while still alive—you’re not alone.
You’re not crazy.
And you’re not wrong for hoping… or for letting go.