Dear Miss Johnson,

Dear Miss Johnson,

Happy Mother’s Day.

- James

No. That wasn’t enough.

Dear Miss Johnson,

Thank you for taking me in.

Happy Mother’s Day.

- James

Not that either.

Dear Miss Johnson,

Thank you for everything. You’re the best.

Happy Mother’s Day.

- James

James tore another page from his notebook. 

James was nine the first time he tasted alcohol. His mother, who usually kept herself under control back then, must not have had the energy to dump or drink the rest of her vodka (as he later discovered it was) before she passed out. 

James had been taught from a young age not to waste anything, especially food and drinks, so he tried to wake his mom from her place on the couch to see if she wanted to finish her water. When she didn’t stir, he decided that the next obvious step was for him to finish it. The small glass was only half full, so he took a big swig, planning to gulp it in one go. Half a second later, he was sputtering and coughing the disgusting drink up, accidentally spilling it on the floor in the process. Still, his mom didn’t wake.

Dear Miss Johnson,

Thank you for wanting me, despite all my problems. It means a lot.

Happy Mother’s Day.

- James

That didn’t even come close to covering it.

Dear Miss Johnson,

I know I haven’t made it easy, so thank you for being patient.

Happy Mother’s Day.

- James

Still an understatement. He was more than a little difficult to deal with, especially at first.

Dear Miss Johnson,

Thank you for caring. You’re the best.

Happy Mother’s Day.

- James

‘The best’ didn’t come close to covering his foster mom’s kindness and compassion, but it was probably the closest he’d gotten yet.

The next time James tried alcohol was on his fourteenth birthday. 

By then, his mom had stopped hiding her drinking. He assumed she’d gotten tired of cleaning up her empty glasses and bottles at the end of every night because she eventually stopped doing it. That became his chore - along with doing the dishes and laundry. He wasn’t positive about what his mom’s chores were.

James turned fourteen on November 2nd, 2020. One would think he would’ve been sick of the quarantine by now, but he had no desire to talk to any of the kids at school anyway. It’s not that he didn’t want friends; he just had no idea how to make friends with people who constantly teased him for everything from his appearance to the way he talked.

By then, James had watched how his mother handled her own bad moods. He could easily argue he was in one that could match hers, and nothing seemed to make it better. Not a single person had remembered his birthday. Despite how insignificant the day felt every year, usually at least his mom would say something, if not the old lady who lived next door. Something about the loneliness made him angry, so he pulled out a bottle of his mom’s liquor, determined to drink every drop left.

The taste, at first, was just as disgusting as he remembered, but it didn’t take long for him to get over it, likely because he had gotten drunk so quickly. James didn’t remember much else from that night, but he would never forget how loud his mom yelled when she found him slouched against the same couch she passed out on most nights. It was one of the few times she cared enough to slap him.

Despite it all, he felt no guilt. Maybe she would realize how much it sucked being on the other side.

Dear Miss Johnson,

Sorry I suck at words. I don’t know how to compare to you, but thank you for being you.

Happy Mother’s Day.

- James

Did that even make sense?

Dear Miss Johnson,

I don’t deserve all the kindness you’ve brought into my life, but I am forever grateful.

Happy Mother’s Day.

- James

Well, that one sucked less, but he could do better.

Dear Miss Johnson,

You found me in an awful spot, but you’re the reason I try to be better.

Happy Mother’s Day.

- James

Definitely not his worst draft, but probably not his best either.

James was fifteen when he started making friends. Granted, his friends were upperclassmen who just wanted alcohol at their parties, but he had no problem providing it. At that point, he wasn’t sure if his mom didn’t know or didn’t care that he was stealing from her stash, but she never commented either way. Maybe she considered it her payment to get him out of the house, and get out of the house he did.

Every weekend that he could find a party to go to, he found a way to be invited. It didn’t take long for him to be known as the kid who could provide almost as much alcohol as a teenager could ever want. Every time he went out, he could only handle so much human interaction sober, so of course he drank with the older students around him. Alcohol made him more fun to be around anyway, or so he was told.

Dear Miss Johnson,

I’m a poopy butthead. Blah blah blah.

-James

He really needed to think of something soon, before his mind turned to total mush.

Dear Miss Johnson,

Thank you for dealing with me and all my problems.

Happy Mother’s Day.

- James

Okay, at least he was back to something sensical now.

Dear Miss Johnson,

I have a hard time being kind like you, but I hope one day I can do it with ease like you.

Happy Mother’s Day.

- James

Why was writing so hard?

James was sixteen when he realized he had a problem. Like, a real problem-problem.

The realization struck him when he woke up in a stranger’s bed, his vomit-covered shirt next to him, with zero memory of how he got there. The sad part was, this wasn’t even the first time. It was the fourth time he’d woken up in a stranger’s bed - with no one next to him this time, thank God - and at least the fiftieth time he’d vomited from alcohol. The waking up with no memory wasn’t great either, but that had also been an increasingly common occurrence for him.

James did try to fix it, truly. He swore that morning - or afternoon, really, that he would get his shit together and stop drinking more than he could handle. As it turned out, though, quitting was far more difficult than he anticipated, and he was drinking again two weeks later and waking up in another strange bed less than a month after that.

Dear Miss Johnson,

You literally saved my life, and I cannot thank you enough.

Happy Mother’s Day.

- James

Wow. Way to just state facts.

Dear Miss Johnson,

You already know you saved me once, but did you know you saved me every day after? Thank you for that.

Happy Mother’s Day.

- James

That made her sound like Jesus. That was weird.

Dear Miss Johnson,

I don’t know how many times I’ve written out this note now. I just want you to know I care back.

Happy Mother’s Day.

- James

Okay, maybe the honesty there was getting better, or at least getting somewhere.

James was still sixteen the day Miss Johnson found him. He was later told the date was Friday, May 19th, specifically.

He hadn’t been to school in a week, though that was becoming the norm for him. He and his teachers both assumed he’d drop out by the end of the year, but he surprised them all by popping in on occasion. Most of his time now was spent sleeping at Marissa’s - as he’d taken to calling his mother - or drinking at various friend’s places. That week he hadn’t been to Marissa’s at all, he was pretty sure. Not that he particularly remembered where he’d been. Regarding what happened afterward, he really only knew what the nurses, including Miss Johnson, told him.

Miss Johnson explained to him how he stumbled to the bus stop she frequently waited at to get to work. She had recognized signs of his imminent seizure and helped him through it -making sure he didn’t accidentally hit his head on the ground, calling an ambulance, and staying with him in the hospital as much as she could while on the clock. She was also the one to tell him the seizure was caused by alcohol poisoning.

Despite all his obvious problems, when Miss Johnson found out he didn’t have a safe place to call home, she didn’t hesitate to take him in. Luckily, she told him, she had gotten her foster license a few months prior. She never said why.

Dear Miss Johnson,

I’m assuming you have magic powers. Otherwise, you wouldn’t be able to do everything you do. That’s neat.

Happy Mother’s Day.

- James

What did that even mean? Why was he like this?

Dear Miss Johnson,

The world would be a better place if everyone had even half your compassion. Thank you for everything.

Happy Mother’s Day.

- James

So much better, but was it really enough?

Dear Miss Johnson,

I don’t have enough words to thank you.

Happy Mother’s Day.

- James

Maybe it would have to be enough.

James picked up his pile of discarded drafts and set it face down to the right side of his desk. He picked up the top one and flipped it over, reading his first note. He laid it neatly upside down to his left. He began repeating the process: Pick up, flip, read, flip, set down, until he reached his most recent.

I don’t have enough words to thank you, he’d written

He would never have enough words to thank his foster mom, but at least he had all these. He flipped the whole stack over, so now the first one was lying on top. He pulled out one more piece of paper, determined to get this right.

Dear Miss Johnson,

I’ve been sitting here for an hour trying to write a short note that is still enough to thank you. I wanted it to fit on a little card to go with these crappy little flowers, but I don’t think it’s possible. Your kindness has changed my life, and I will never have enough words to thank you.

Despite this, I have clearly tried, so please enjoy all these failed notes for your reading pleasure. Some of them are really bad, so I’m sorry about that. I hope they will at least make you smile or help you realize all the good you’ve done.

Happy Mother’s Day.

- James

Finally satisfied, James set his last note on top of the rest and stapled them together. He deftly slipped out of his room with the notes and flowers he’d bought from the dollar store. Quietly, he set them on the counter for his foster mom to find in the morning, and went back to his room to finally go to sleep for the night.