A Boundary Born from Heartbreak and Clarity

When I came home from that last Cayo Coco vacation, it was late—like 3 AM Saturday night. Sometime the next day, Kayla, Umbriel, and Umbriel’s father, Ken, came over. I couldn’t wait to hold my granddaughter.

That became a thing—every Sunday, they’d come by and I’d cook dinner. We were making up for lost time—that’s how I saw it. I missed my daughter. A piece of me had been restored. So much had happened. I wasn’t the same person I was when she walked out in March 2023—I was deep in the midst of healing, unearthing some very dark shit.

But still… I was happy. I had my daughter back. A new granddaughter. And Ken—Kayla’s boyfriend—a new addition to the mix. We—Trent and I went from two people to five, overnight. We carried on with the Sundays—from September until the end of December.

During the week, Kayla, the baby, and I would go for walks in the park or just hang out whenever. I’d tell her about some of the shit I’d been through, where I was at and she’d be quiet. Honestly, looking back now—I don’t think she really wanted to hear it.

After a few walks, I felt the breeze and I tried to stop talking about it—but it was fucking hard not to. At that time—late August—I had just finished all my tests done and was gearing up for my next cardiology appointment at the end of September.

That had been my whole life for the past 18 months—healing, taking care of my body. Kayla had no fucking clue what I’d been through, or what I was still going through. And honestly? It felt like she didn’t even want to know.

I saw my cardiologist, and while things were still the same, they were also progressing. The leak was severe. She told me instead of coming back in four months, she’d stretch it to six—and if things were still progressing, as they have been, “We’re going to do something about it.”

I took that to mean that come March or April 2025, I’d most likely be having heart surgery number two. And truth be told—I wanted it to happen then. That would’ve marked the two-year point since the first surgery, and I knew from talks with my family doctor that two years was the magic number. That’s how long it takes to truly recover—from open-heart surgery, from the trauma—all of it. Psychologically. Physically. 

This time, I’d be ready. I could plan for it— Not like last time. I kind of parked that in the back of head until February. Going forward, my number one priority was keeping my head right. Well, it was supposed to be. I had peace, quietness. It wasn’t gonna go down like it did last time—no, no, no!

I wasn’t the same person I was a year and a half ago. I had confronted my PTSD head-on and was putting that shit in check—one chunk at a time. I was making progress. Definitely was not the same anymore.

I also had this uprising with the blog—it started back in September and didn’t really calm down or even start to make sense until after December. By then, I was starting to feel it—worn out. It had become a lot. I wasn’t just cooking for myself and Trent—I was cooking for five people. Cleaning for five. Buying groceries for five.

It became too much—but I wanted it. I wanted the connection. So I kept pushing, never even stopping to ask myself if maybe… it was all too much. The blog. The cooking. The cleaning. The regular visits and the gym on top of my healing.

I was also getting ready for Christmas—and prepping for the trip to Barbados. I had become anxious. And sometimes bitchy. The bitchiness in me had pretty much disappeared by September, but I could feel the notches slowly turning up again. I started zooming—stopped burning and praying. The tempo picked up.

I know Kayla had read some of the blog in the beginning. She knew I went through a lot—But we never talked about it. We never talked about why she wasn’t there. Why she left. What she did while she was gone, besides work. We just carried on like none of it happened—Until I couldn’t carry on that way anymore.

I was pumping out the blog. Hitting the gym when I could. My visits with Melanie became less and less. And I was still hosting every Sunday and doing whatever in between.

The day before we left for Barbados, I wanted to take Kayla and Umbriel out to lunch. I just wanted to spend some time with them before I flew out. I never wanted Kayla to feel left out.

The trip had been booked months ago, sometime in the summer. At that time, I was already bracing for another Christmas without my daughter. I asked Tent if he wanted to go, and we booked it.

That day at lunch, we went to the Firkin—and she was different. She snapped at me—twice. For what, I still don’t know. She was rude. I paid for lunch and we left. I walked home crying my face off. Nothing felt right between us. Shit was off and I felt it with every ounce of blood in my body.

I was leaving for Barbados the next day—and I needed Melanie! I sent her a quick email. She called me right back, I swear by then she had me on speed dial. With my needy self—every time I needed her it was always something extreme, and she was always there. I was bawling, on Queen St. explaining to her how I felt. I was mentally, emotionally and physically drained.

The Sunday dinners, the visits, the blog, the cooking, the cleaning—it was all too much. I was worn down. It felt like I was doing everything for everyone else… and I’d forgotten about me. Forgotten that I was still fragile.

I stopped going to the gym. Stopped seeing Melanie. I forgot I was still healing—midway. Forgot I was supposed to be slowing down. I forgot all of it. And I felt completely lost.

Trent and I went to Barbados. It wasn’t the best trip. The energy was off—totally. Don’t get me wrong, I absolutely love Barbados. But the place we picked? It was a bit fuddy-duddy—Elderly, English and not the fun ones! They were on the snitty side to be honest. Kept to themselves. Not social. Not even friendly.

That’s when Trent realized—he’s a resort guy. He likes activities and socialization. Me? I just need the ocean. I had a good trip, because it's always about the ocean for me, and it was beautiful. Trent enjoyed himself, but not as much as he would’ve at a livelier spot.

Ocean Girl

Also—these past few trips, people had been mistaking Trent for my man. Guests. Staff. Everyone. I don’t know who it bothered more—me or him. Probably him. I started making it clear—“This is my son.” Calling him son every chance I got. “C’mon son!”

I don’t usually give a shit what people think—but it was weird and at 22, I’m pretty sure Trent didn’t wanna look like he was dating a 50-year-old. Especially when it was his mother. Hahaha.

We got back from Barbados a week or so before Christmas. And I was still doing Sunday dinners. Still writing. Wanting to spend time with my granddaughter. Trying to get the tree up, the decorations sorted, presents bought. I was excited and exhausted at the same time. I was doing too much—way too much. 

One day, I said to Trent, “I don’t know if I can keep going like this.” I started getting this wicked pain at the base of my neck—and it just got worse. Trent said exactly what I was thinking: “Maybe every Sunday is too much.” And I said, “I think you’re right.” Nobody else around me seemed to have noticed besides Trent.

I waited for Christmas to come and just kept going. But as the days went on, something started building inside me. It became almost unbearable. I didn’t stop, I was used to that shit, once upon a time so I just kept going.

Everyone was congratulating me. Telling me how good it was for me to have them—her—back. But nobody could see what it was doing to me.

I had reverted to my old ways—ways my body wasn’t built for anymore. And in doing that, my peace got pushed to the sidelines. My happiness was benched. Instead of being front and center—where it belonged.

My girlfriend Tanya had a Christmas shindig, that I attended. And I had planned one for the night after. I wanted it. I needed it—normality. It’s what I used to do. I had my daughter back, I wanted to celebrate.

One of my closest friends, Chelsea, had just lost her mother—and I knew this Christmas would hit differently for her. I didn’t want her or her daughter to feel alone. It was Chels, and everything she was going through, that inspired me to host a holiday get-together.

Ma girl Chels & her daughter, Meadow <3

Chelsea, Adrianna, her boyfriend. I also invited my friend Rosie. Just a very small group, but I still went all out. Made the wings. Made this. Made that. Made everything. Made specialty drinks; chocolate martinis and mud slides and I was fucking exhausted. Burnt out. This was the day before Christmas Eve.

Mudslides & Chocolate Martinis

Everybody left—and I was left to clean up the mess. I was trying to organize and wrap presents. And I was still writing. Because I had to write. The writing wasn’t leaving me. It was like this anxiousness that had to come out. The writing felt forced—but also non-negotiable.

Christmas Eve, they all came over. Five of us, plus my Uncle Kevin. I threw together a few appetizers, but mentally—I was already checking out. I just wanted them to leave. Which feels awful to say, but it’s the truth. I was overextending myself, to say the least. I was done.

I had this big-ass turkey to prep early the next morning. That’s all I could think about—One more fucking day of this. It had been non-stop since we landed at Pearson.

I woke up Christmas morning. Trent and I had a beautiful, quiet breakfast. Just us. Kayla knew I was making breakfast—I always did.  Eggs Benny. That’s been the tradition for years.

As they were walking out, I could feel it on her. That knowing. That ache of missing out. And I said, “It’s all good. You’ve got your own family now. You’re gonna make your own traditions. But—do you want me to make breakfast for you and put it aside?” She said, “Yeah.” I said, “Okay.” Gave her a hug. And she left.

Christmas morning came. I got the bird together. The tree was beautiful, and the floor was filled with presents, spilling out past the branches. I sat there quietly, champagne in hand, staring at the fireplace—it was so peaceful.

I was dreading the commotion—even though it was Christmas Day. I hate to say, but that’s how I felt. My body wasn’t used to it anymore—I was physically and emotionally breaking down. I was anxious the whole day about them coming over... even though I wanted them to. If that makes any sense.

Thoughts started spinning—how I made all the mudslides and chocolate martinis at my shindig, how I prepped all those appetizers—while hosting and my daughter didn’t offer to help. Not once. Not to cook. Not to clean. Not once since September.

No apology for walking out on me. Not even an acknowledgment. It was like she erased it all—like none of it ever happened. And I can tell you firsthand, that kind of hurt cuts deeper than any mother should ever have to feel. It crept up on me—quiet and cold.

When I asked her for help, she’d send Ken. I didn’t want fucking Ken. I wanted my daughter in there with me—I told him, “Go sit down. I’m good.” But I wasn’t good. Not at all.

Kayla didn’t want to be in there with me.

I was making these specialty drinks—they took time. Blended. Shaken. Dipped in chocolate flakes. Instead of asking how to make one—instead of helping me—she just kept putting her glass in my face, asking me for another one.

I started thinking about all of it that Christmas Day—like I said, it’s unfortunate… but everything came to a head that day. They came over, started opening their presents. Meanwhile, I still had potatoes and carrots to peel. I left them out on the counter—not even subtle about it. I thought maybe—just maybe—one of them would say, “Hey, do you need help with these?” But nope. Never happened. So I went into the kitchen, and I cooked the very bare minimum. And then… I started laughing.

Not a chuckle. Not a giggle. I started laughing like a fucking hyena. Hysterical. Like something ruptured inside me.

Not angry. Just... gone.

From there, the rest of the night… I mentally checked out. I barely remember it. I know I was in the kitchen most of the time. The pain in my back—right in the middle of my neck—wouldn’t let up. I couldn’t bend down into the fridge anymore. Couldn’t do anything without wincing. But still, I kept moving. Kept going. Like a fucking animal. I just wanted it to be over with.

When they left, Kayla had attitude—rightfully so, I guess… in her mind. She had no idea what it was like for me. Or maybe she just didn’t care. And the fact that she didn’t—after seeing me, reading those early blog segments, knowing what I’d been through, what I was still going through—was eye-opening.

Right then and there, I decided—I wasn’t going to have that kind of apathy around me anymore. Not from her. Not from anyone.

Kayla and I had tickets to see The Four Tops on the 28th. We’d barely spoken between Christmas and that day, and when it finally came around, I told her I wasn’t feeling well—that it’d probably be best if she took a friend. And physically, I wasn’t lying. My neck was fucked right along with my emotions.

More than anything, I didn’t want to be around that attitude she kept throwing at me. Not after everything. Not after bending over fucking backwards for her—for them—for the past four months. When I should have been heling my self. I’d had enough.

Instead of asking me what was wrong, if I was okay, or even just telling me to feel better— She replied, “Well, I guess I will, if I can find somebody.” That was it.

It’s like they took what they could—whatever I was offering up—including a piece of my restored soul—and just walked away. To this day, not once has she ever asked me how I’m doing. Not once has she asked if I’m okay.

After that, I repositioned a question into an offer—not to patch things, but to avoid stealing whatever it is she still feels for me that’s... negative.

I didn’t like the way we were. Umbriel deserved better.

So I said: “How about you drop the baby off every now and then—give yourself a mom break?”

It worked out, and that became the new arrangement.