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My son always sat by the shore, humming, his toes in the sand, no matter what time of day. Jet-black hair. Dimples that welcomed me every face call, Brown eyes that lit up under the moon. I still see him when I close my eyes. Even when I’m thousands of miles away. Even when I can’t call. Even when the storm takes all the lines down, And I don’t know if he’s safe. I tell myself I left for him. I tell myself I sacrificed for his future. But if he’s not okay right now, if he’s scared and alone in the dark, then what was it all for? People call me strong. “Brave.” They say I endured. They don’t know how it feels to imagine your child underwater, crying, reaching out for hands that aren’t there. Your hands. My hands. The ones that should’ve been holding him. I keep replaying it in my head. What if the roof collapsed? What if the flood rose too high? What if he thought, even for a second, that I abandoned him? That I chose money over him, That I chose oceans over his safety, That I chose work over warmth, over him. No, no, I left for his own success. I had a good reason to be with him. I left to support his dreams, and to give him everything he wanted. That's justifiable, right? He'll be fine, right? He's a young man now. He'll do just fine... Just... Fine... ... I did the right thing, right? The thought makes me sick. The thought makes me want to tear myself apart. Because what if the last thing he remembers is waiting by the shore, looking out into the waves that were about to crush him believing I would come back? And I didn’t. ... I didn't come back. And I didn't look back either. I can’t silence it. I can’t fix it. All I can do is whisper, again and again, across seas that don’t care, into storms that don’t listen: I hope you’re okay. I hope you’re okay. I hope you’re okay. Please, god, be okay... Because if you’re not— then I don’t know what I’ve been living for.