I told my son not to come home because I was angry

Dear Delyara, My son was twenty-two and addicted to drugs. By then, he had stolen from us, lied about treatment, sold things from the house, and promised so many fresh starts that hope itself had become exhausting. One night, he called and asked whether he could come home. I had barely slept for days. I told him no. I said he needed to face consequences. I said our house could not keep becoming a place he returned to only when everything else collapsed. He became quiet. Then he said, “Okay, Mum. I get it.” He died from an overdose that night in a friend’s flat. My husband tells me we had taken him back dozens of times. The addiction worker says boundaries are necessary and that I could not have known. Friends remind me that bringing him home might not have stopped him using. I know all of this. None of it changes the fact that my child called his mother and asked to come home, and I was the person who said no on the final night of his life. His last text is still on my phone: “Love you anyway.” Anyway. I cannot decide whether that word was forgiveness, accusation, resignation, or simply my son being my son. Sometimes I stand by the front door at night and imagine it opening, his shoes appearing on the mat, his voice saying he is hungry. I would let him in now. Grief has given me unlimited permission on a night that will never happen again.