Fifteen Years, Three Kids, and One Impossible Question

“Mom, sometimes I wonder if it was worth having three kids.” Jack’s voice sliced through the morning’s quiet, a stray beam of sunlight glinting off the streaks of gray in his hair. The clatter of his coffee mug against the chipped ceramic counter sounded like a gavel coming down. My hand, halfway to the sugar bowl, froze.

I stared at my oldest son, searching his face for a hint of the little boy who used to chase fireflies in our backyard in Cedar Rapids. Instead, I saw a man worn thin by something I hadn’t noticed creeping into his life. I closed my eyes for a second, reminded of a time when I thought love and effort could fix anything.

“What do you mean, Jack?” My voice was steadier than I felt, but inside, my heart thundered. Fifteen years of raising three kids, alone after Mark walked out, and this is what he asks me?

He sighed, rubbing his temples. “I just… I look at my own kids, and I’m drowning, Mom. Jenna’s always working late. The twins are fighting every night, and Ellie—she barely speaks to me anymore. Sometimes I think, if I’d just stopped at one, maybe I wouldn’t feel so… lost.”

The ground beneath me seemed to tilt. Had I missed something so big in my own son’s life? Or was this about me—about what I’d done, or failed to do, all those years ago?

My mind reeled back to the nights when I’d held Jack’s feverish body close, whispering lullabies over the hum of the old air conditioner. To the day Mark left, slamming the front door behind him, and the way Jack’s eyes went wide, too old and too knowing for a boy of ten. To the years I juggled two jobs, PTA meetings, and the relentless guilt that I was never enough.

“Do you regret us?” I whispered, the words tasting bitter.

He shook his head quickly. “No, Mom. I love you. I love Emily and Ben. I just—” He looked away, jaw clenched. “Sometimes I think we were all just trying to survive.”

I reached for his hand, and for a moment, he let me hold it. His fingers trembled, and I wondered when was the last time he’d let himself be vulnerable. Maybe it was easier to talk about regret than to name the exhaustion that came with being an adult, a parent, a husband in a world that never stopped demanding more.

“We did our best, Jack. All of us. You, me, your brother and sister. Even your dad, in his way.”

He pulled away, standing abruptly. “His way? He bailed on us, Mom. You always make excuses for him.”

That old ache throbbed in my chest. Mark’s leaving had left scars on all of us. For years, Jack was angry, but I thought he’d made his peace. Maybe I was wrong.

“What was I supposed to do?” I said, my voice sharper than I meant. “You three were my whole world. I put everything into making sure you had a life worth living.”

Jack’s eyes flashed. “You never let us see you fall apart. You just kept going. Didn’t you ever wonder if we wanted to help you, too? Or were we just another thing to keep afloat?”

I stared at him, feeling the years crack open between us. He was right—I’d learned to hide my pain, to always smile, to tell my children we were okay even when I was falling apart in the shower at midnight. Maybe I thought that was what a mother was supposed to do.

“I was terrified,” I admitted, finally. “I was so scared if I let go for a second, everything would collapse. I didn’t want you to worry.”

He sat down again, softer now. “We worried anyway. I worry about my kids. I worry I’m screwing them up. I worry I’m screwing up Jenna, too.”

The clock on the wall ticked, a metronome for our shared anxiety. I looked at the faded family photo above the sink—Jack’s arm around Emily’s shoulder, Ben’s toothy grin, me smiling like I’d never known heartbreak. I realized how little we’d ever really talked about the hard parts.

“You’re not screwing them up,” I said. “But it’s okay to be scared. It’s okay to wonder if you did the right thing.”

He laughed, a sound thick with exhaustion. “Do you still wonder?”

I nodded, tears stinging my eyes. “Every day. But I wouldn’t trade any of you for a second. Not even the hardest days.”

Jack looked at me for a long time, the kitchen suddenly too small for all the words we hadn’t said. “Maybe that’s the point.”

I wanted to tell him about the nights I dreamed of escaping—of running away from the bills, the loneliness, the endless laundry and broken promises. I wanted to tell him how I envied the families who seemed to have it all together, who never had to choose between buying groceries and paying the electric bill. But I didn’t. Not yet.

“Jack,” I said, reaching for him again, “we’re all just trying to figure it out. There’s no right answer.”

He squeezed my hand, and for the first time in years, I saw him as both my son and a man carrying his own burdens. Maybe, I thought, that was the only way forward—to let go of what we thought family should be, and finally talk about what it was.

Later that night, after Jack left, I sat alone in the kitchen, the silence pressing in. I wondered if any parent ever truly knows the cost of their choices—or if every family is just a collection of imperfect love stories, stitched together with hope and regret.

How do you measure the worth of a family? Is it in the sacrifices, the scars, or the moments you pick each other up, even when it hurts? What would you have said to Jack if you were in my place?