“I see his awful, sad, pain-filled life and it breaks me. It is an indescribable pain to know that your child is living such a horrific existence and causing harm wherever he goes. How could it not be – even partially – my fault? I’m his mother and that’s where blame goes isn’t it?” A mother writes anonymously about how a beloved son became a violent adult.
I like to remember my son as he was at three, with his blond halo of curls and his cheeky smile, singing sweet songs to me while strumming a ukulele. I have a photo of him in my house from this time, it’s the picture of innocence. A small, new human looking up at me, his eyes full of trust. I look at him and I wonder how it all went so wrong. When my son was five, my husband left me for another woman.