I met the father of my son about three years ago. We met online, knowing almost nothing about each other, and somehow fell in love almost instantly—within weeks. He became my person, my safe place, everything I thought I wanted in a man. What I didn’t know then was that he carried demons long before I ever came into his life. I didn’t learn that A.J. was a heavy drug user until about five or six months after our son was born. I knew about pills and weed, but I had no idea he was shooting heroin. During our first year together, we suffered a miscarriage that shattered us both. It broke our hearts, but we leaned on each other, grieved together, and found the strength to try again.
A few months later, I became pregnant again. That’s when I started noticing things—his short temper, his drinking, the constant need to fill some deep emptiness inside him. I questioned myself endlessly, wondering why I wasn’t enough to make him want to stop. I convinced myself it was just a phase, that once the baby arrived, everything would change for the better.
On May 20, 2018, the greatest blessing of my life was born—my sweet son. I will never forget that day. A.J. and I moved into our own home, he worked and paid the bills, and I stayed home with our baby. I was so grateful and excited to spend every day watching my son grow, believing we were building the life we had dreamed of.
A.J. truly was a good dad. He worked hard and loved his son, yet there was always something missing, something that kept him from being truly happy. I couldn’t understand it. We had our own home, a beautiful child, and two dogs we adored—it felt like we had everything. But that’s when the real signs began to show.
Bills started going unpaid, his mood swings worsened, and everything slowly unraveled. Being a stay-at-home mom and unable to help financially put even more strain on us. Eventually, my son, S.J., and I moved back in with my mom. That’s when things with A.J. turned into a nightmare. His house became chaotic—mess everywhere, strange writing from his “friends” on the walls, holes punched through them. I knew he was hiding more than he was admitting. Finally, he broke down and confessed that he was shooting heroin again. Again? I asked, stunned. That’s when he told me he had been a heavy addict long before he ever met me. My world shattered. Suddenly, everything made sense, yet I couldn’t believe I had never seen it. I had dated him, lived with him, and had a child with him without knowing. I wasn’t judging—I was just heartbroken and shocked.
Today, S.J. and I still live with my mom, about an hour and a half away. For a while, A.J. would keep our son with his mom for a few days, then I’d have him for a week. It was painful, but I knew sharing our son was the right thing to do. His mother has been an absolute blessing in our lives, someone I will always be grateful for. But now things have gotten so bad that this arrangement can’t continue. His mom still stays in contact with me—I actually called her crying today. I haven’t been able to reach A.J., and I’m sick with worry. He’s using again and living out of his truck.
I spend sleepless nights staring at my phone, terrified of getting that call—the one telling me he’s overdosed or worse. My mind never slows down, racing nonstop with fear. What if something happens? What if my son grows up without his dad? He doesn’t deserve that. No child does. And my son loves his daddy so much. Our entire world has been turned upside down. He runs around the house crying and calling for his dad, and it shatters my heart in ways I can’t describe. I wouldn’t wish this pain on anyone. So at night, I hold my son a little tighter, tell him I love him a little more, and reassure him that his daddy loves him too—that nothing will ever change that.
When I look into my son’s eyes, my heart breaks all over again, but I know I have to be strong for him. I need him to believe that everything will be okay. I share our story in hopes that someone will realize the pain addiction causes a child is never worth the high. I promise. Addiction blinds you to the ripple effect of your choices, to the devastation left behind. I will never understand how your child isn’t enough to make you choose differently. There are only two paths this road leads to—rock bottom or the grave.
So if you ever read this, A.J., please know we miss you, we love you, and we will never give up on you. When you’re ready, we’ll be here with open arms. Help exists, but you have to want it—we can’t do it for you. How I wish I could.
