What She Left Behind: Walking Through My Mother’s Apartment

The first thing that hit me wasn’t the sight.
It was the smell.

Stale air, years of smoke, rot, mildew, old food, old regrets. It clung to everything—walls, blankets, wood, wires. I came prepared with a respirator, and thank God for that. Without it, I don’t think I could’ve lasted more than five minutes.

This was the place where my mother died.
Alone.

The curtains were taped-up shower liners. Bedsheets were scattered on the floor. An old NextBox lay in a tangle of wires and dust. In the kitchen, pots still sat on the stove like someone walked away mid-meal and never came back. Everything felt temporary, abandoned. There was no order, no warmth—just survival. And even that had given up.

Her bedroom was the hardest part. The bed was a mess of tangled blankets and clothes. A computer monitor lay face-down, like it had just… given up. The closet was nearly empty. The bathroom door hung open, the toilet just sitting there under the dim hallway light. The whole apartment was like a still frame from a life that stopped moving a long time ago.

And I stood in it all, trying to figure out what I was supposed to feel.

I hated her for years.
Her addiction ripped through my childhood like a hurricane. I spent my early years bouncing through foster care because of her choices. And they were choices.

We all make choices in life.
I’ve made some pretty bad ones myself. I’ve hurt people I cared about. I’ve burned bridges. I’ve stumbled and fallen and clawed my way back up.

But here's the difference—I wanted to change.
I’m trying to change.

My mother had been offered help. More than once. People extended their hands, gave her lifelines. But she didn’t take them. Maybe she couldn’t. Maybe she wouldn’t.
Maybe, deep down, she just didn’t want to change.

And that’s what hit me hardest—standing in the middle of her forgotten world, knowing that at some point she just stopped reaching for better.

I don’t know how to unpack all of this. I still don’t.

Because even after everything—after the years of pain, neglect, and silence—I stood there, staring at what was left of her life… and I felt sorry for her.
This wasn’t how it had to end. But it’s how it did.

No matter how angry I’ve been, no one deserves to die like this.
Alone. In a place that smells like broken promises.

The photos below are from the apartment. They are disturbing to me, but they are also oddly therapeutic for some reason.