I cannot save him anymore. I can only push him through this mad world by hand, protecting him even so slightly from emotional damage.
Reality catches with us all; he got at least 10 additional years than I had.
Would I like to keep on my motherly protectiveness? Yes.
Would I like for him not to have the emotional damage of dealing with impending death? Yes.
But I can not afford it anymore.

One day, long ago, I realized I was responsible. Without asking for it, without wanting it, I was responsible for an adult and a kid. And I knew back then I had to make choices, and I always chose him, the kid. Without blinking, without faltering, it was always him.

But he is not a kid anymore, and the truth is that I am tired of carrying all this responsibility. I am so, so tired of being looked upon as if I have all the answers and owe everyone a piece of me.
Adulthood was not kind to me, never was, even when I was a teenager.
He is 21 now, and I cannot save him anymore.