I still mother them….

Last night was my first time back at Redemption Addiction Treatment Center in a long time. Between vacation and life doing what life does, it had been a while since I’d walked through those doors.

As I pulled into the parking lot, I felt something I hadn’t expected.

I was nervous.

Not because I didn’t know the people. Not because I didn’t know what I wanted to say. I was nervous because I knew I was going to talk about being Vincent’s mom.

I was going to tell the story about the day I looked at my son and said, “If you loved me enough, you would stop using. If you loved yourself enough, you would stop using.” At the time, I believed those words. I believed addiction was a choice. I believed that if he loved us enough, or loved himself enough, he would stop.

Then Brandon Novak’s book found its way into my life.

Page by page, it unraveled everything I thought I knew. I learned addiction isn’t a moral failing. It isn’t a lack of willpower. It isn’t about someone not loving their family enough or not wanting recovery badly enough. It’s a disease. Those pages didn’t erase my grief, but they did release me from carrying guilt that was never mine to hold.

Even knowing that, there are still moments when I get nervous telling my story.

I worry someone will judge Vincent because of how he died instead of seeing the funny, compassionate, generous young man he was. I worry people hear one chapter of his life and think they know the whole book.

I worry about Gabriella, too. I worry people hear the word “relapse” and stop there. They don’t see the incredible mom she was, her huge heart, or how hard she fought. Addiction has a way of trying to become someone’s entire identity. I refuse to let it do that to either of my children.

And sometimes, if I’m being completely honest, I worry people look at me and quietly wonder where I went wrong. How one mother could lose two children. I know better. I know addiction doesn’t discriminate. I know grief has a way of creating questions that no one is actually asking. But some fears don’t disappear overnight.

Then the group started.

People shared. People listened. We laughed. We learned. And just like that, every bit of nervousness melted away. I was exactly where I was supposed to be.

As I drove home, I thought about Brandon’s videos on social media. They’re filmed in that same room. Every time I watch one, my eyes eventually drift behind him.

That’s where Vincent’s picture hangs.

Every single time, it feels like my son is standing right there behind Brandon. Watching. Listening. Still part of the conversation.

And maybe that’s why I keep going back.

Not because I have all the answers. Not because I never get nervous. But because every time I walk into that room, or every time I see one of Brandon’s videos, I’m reminded that Vincent’s story didn’t end the day he died. His life still teaches. His life still changes hearts. His life still helps parents let go of shame and replace it with understanding.

For a mom, that’s a pretty incredible legacy.