Are You Worth Saving?

He spilled his secrets to me across the velvety darkness of Instagram. He knew nothing about me, but I knew everything about him. I was, after all, his stalker.

“I barely know you, but I feel your vibe. Your boy here thinks you’re an 18-year-old supermodel. I haven’t had sex in months, and my testosterone is boiling.”

What was I supposed to say, the truth? You’re flirting with a 50-year-old woman who never remotely resembled a supermodel. Oh, surprise! It’s me, your mother.

Instead, I typed, “Lol, I’m none of those things. GTG, my phone is almost dead.”

Catfishing my son began as a misguided attempt at control. I wasn’t born with a savior complex or a burning need to fix people. These qualities percolated over time and erupted with motherhood. I always longed to be a mother. As a child, I played with my floppy baby doll with blond synthetic hair and imagined my future filled with cheerful faces and rosy little cheeks. But motherhood didn’t work out as planned. It was full of challenges—the kind no mother wants to admit.

“My blankie is all messed up,” my son P yelled at 3 years old, escalating with each unfulfilled and confusing demand. “My blankie is ALL MESSED UP,” he cried into the dark. My husband, Jeff, stood motionless in the hallway, his eyes admitting defeat. Unable to calm my son, I grabbed the beloved blankie and threw it out the front door. There. Your blankie is gone. But he wailed louder. I recovered the blanket and tossed it in the dryer. When the cycle finished, I wrapped his tiny, tense body in the warm fleece and rocked him until he fell asleep.

That was the easy part, I now realize.

I kept a five-inch three-ring binder filled with notes and research that accumulated over the next 16 years to address his psychiatric and learning challenges. Inside the plastic cover, I slipped a black-and-white photo of four-year-old P asleep on my shoulder, along with a note he had scribbled at eight years old: “I love you forever, Mommy.” The tabs inside were labeled Diagnosis, IEPs, Medication, and Hospitalizations. I wanted to find answers and control what I couldn’t fix with love. I wanted to give him a better life.      

“Weed is not a drug,” P said, now 19 with bloodshot eyes and a high school diploma. “The entire world will be high one day.”

Maybe he had a point, but my instinct was to set him straight. I could’ve ranted about how he rejected college and spent his days as an unemployed stoner, gaming in the basement. I could’ve handed him an invoice for free Wi-Fi, an unlimited meal ticket, and a warm bed at night. I could’ve explained how my life was out of control because his life was out of control, on repeat and at increasing decibels. Instead, in a steady monotone, I said, “Weed is a drug. It’s illegal here in Georgia,” and walked away.

“You want me to leave? I’m leaving,” P said on a cold January night a few months later. He pounded past me in his size 13 shoes, pulling his black hoodie over his six-foot frame. With dark, feral eyes, he slung a stuffed yellow duffel bag over his shoulder and slammed the back door behind him. I stood frozen next to the fridge, staring at the permanent fist dents in the door panel. I didn’t chase him. I didn’t apologize or beg him to stay like I had many times before.

I locked the door, twisted the deadbolt into place, and collapsed into Jeff’s arms. “We did the right thing,” he whispered as my tears became sobs. “He’ll be back tomorrow. It’s going to be all right.”

Except he didn’t come home. For days, weeks, and then years.

I’m not proud of what I became in the name of motherhood—a frantic, codependent wreck desperately trying to hold my family together. It wasn’t good for any of us. Neither was catfishing my son, but it was the only way I knew to keep him safe.

Our house felt peaceful after P left, but my heart remained restless. I needed to know where he was. Was he eating? Was he sleeping? Was he safe? Cyber-stalking seemed harmless and anonymous—people do it all the time. As I scrolled P’s public Instagram, I noticed he had several suspicious followers like “Nurse Katrina” in her slutty profile pic with a bulging bosom. She was probably a pedophile in Toledo or a bot in Russia, ready to take advantage of my vulnerable son. I wasn’t the only one tracking him.

I questioned her motives. But I didn’t question mine. I was driven by fear. P blocked our phones when he left and immediately went no-contact. The small stuff, like bad grades, a broken collarbone, or a bad decision, felt trivial. Now there were drugs, no income, and dangerous people. I was afraid for his life. I went where I could still reach him: undercover and online.

My foray into catfishing began with “Britney Swift,” a sketchy mash-up of pop star names and a profile picture of a stunning stranger snagged from the internet. I set this up quickly on Instagram and sent a follow request. Boom. I messaged P, “Heyyyyy, wassup?” and he bit quickly. He was couch-surfing close to home. I watched his Instagram live videos and followed his posts to keep tabs on him. He flirted with Britney Swift in private messages, and to my horror, I flirted back. It felt icky, not to mention illegal.

I needed a different persona.

Miss Guardian Angel, my new alias, was a well-thought-out, unhealthy coping mechanism. She was everything I was and everything I needed to be. Instead of a middle-aged mother, Miss Guardian Angel was God-fearing and teen-fluent in text messaging and the latest slang. She loved her family and the liberal use of emojis, especially prayer hands and stars. Her bio was simple: “If you’re worth saving, I’m your angel,” followed by a trail of sparkles punctuated with a unicorn. Her profile photo featured a blurred close-up of pink and yellow flowers, with two leaves faintly resembling wings. She was idealistic, ethereal, endlessly patient, slightly naïve, and undeniably badass. A ridiculous combination meant to disarm.      

“Do you want advice?” I messaged him one night.

“Sure,” he replied.

“Get a job. No girl wants an unemployed boyfriend,” I typed, smiling as I pressed send. “I work two hard-ass, dead-end jobs, and it sucks, but I do it. You should too.”

It was true—I hustled two jobs: one paid as an IT consultant and one highly unpaid as a mom.

“OK,” he typed back, a confirmation I would never receive in real life.

With the physical and emotional distance between us, I shed my overbearing mom mode and became my son’s non-judgmental encourager.

After dinner, Jeff rinsed the dishes while I loaded the dishwasher.

“Any updates?” he asked.

I rattled off the short version. Then, with a glass of wine in my hand, I crept upstairs, avoiding his raised eyebrow, to spy on my iPad. Jeff never intervened. He let me lead.

At 3 a.m., I listened to Jeff snore while my brain ran an endless loop of outcomes. Was P sleeping in a bed or on the pavement? When did he stop taking his meds? Where in the world was his retainer? My thoughts spiraled from helplessness to anger. I didn’t think about my secret life. I convinced myself I could stop at any time.

I ticked through a menu of reassurances: At least I could still reach him. At least he wasn’t on heroin. At least he was alive.

Although life became easier with P living outside our home, he still occupied significant real estate in my head. At the grocery store, I avoided eye contact with my neighbors. On the tennis court, I imagined them gossiping. At cocktail parties, I dreaded someone mentioning his name.

I could stomach the isolation, but his online presence undid me.

P’s chaotic posts and videos sent me down a rabbit hole. He announced he was no longer homeless and skateboarded from Georgia to Florida to live with “Red Head Rebel,” a girl he met on Instagram, every mother’s dream. Months later, another post announced he resided in an abandoned basement, wearing a dirty green t-shirt and smoking a blunt the size of my pinky. I pieced together the details of his new life from his online imprint, but I secretly longed for the private messages we exchanged.

“Wakey, wakey, eggs and bakey,” I messaged one morning, trying to check in after days of silence stirred my anxiety.

“I’m in a hole, zooming to the sun,” he replied. “Relapsed. Ecstasy and coke. Been up for 36 hours.”

My brain knew what my heart resisted to acknowledge. This wasn’t just weed.

The real me would’ve launched into a lecture. Miss Guardian Angel simply responded, “I’m gonna pray for you,” followed by prayer hands to stay on brand.

“Thanks,” he typed back.

He knew he messed up. Rather than pushing him away with anger and shame, Miss Guardian Angel offered him something unexpected: grace.

“Can I see your face?” he asked me one night after a lengthy cyber debate on creationism, a subject I googled to keep pace with his brilliantly flawed brain.

Unwilling to break my cover or unravel the deepening bond between us, panic gripped my throat.

“I am invisible. I never show my wings, but I believe in saving people.” I hit enter, holding my breath as the screen blinked. Nothing. The seconds stretched. “Are you worth saving?” I added quickly, hoping to reel him back.

I watched the three dots dance on my screen, bracing for an anticipatory, moody rant.

“I’m a believer in many things. Love, happiness, success, and dreams. I believe angels appear when you need them the most. I need you now more than ever. Yes, I’m worth saving.”

His answer confirmed what I already knew. He believed in himself, and he wanted to live.

“I’m sad,” he told me another night. “I wish I had listened to my mom. She was right about many things.”

In real life, P and I were still distant. But in this anonymous place, he trusted me with the words I longed to hear.

“Your mom sounds cool. I bet she loves you.” I typed back, grinning.

“She’s alright. You kinda remind me of her. She stalks me on here, lol.”

 No. No. No. I swallowed the knot in my throat. My cheeks burned red.

“Shadddupppp, I ain’t no Karen. GTG,” I typed with shaky hands and slammed the iPad shut, like I was smothering a flame.

And then he disappeared.

I fought the urge to message him. I checked the paper airplane icon for incoming messages. Nothing. I messaged him anyway. And then I did it again.

He couldn’t know for sure it was me, could he?

I tried to remember the Serenity Prayer—grant me the serenity to change the things I cannot change. No, that wasn’t it. Dammit. Acceptance was the word I kept forgetting: accept the things I cannot change.

I couldn’t accept that I was losing control until he ghosted Miss Guardian Angel. That’s when I retired my wings.

He was worth saving—he told me so—but he didn’t want to be saved. Not then, and not in the way I imagined. No intervention. No rehab for the fourth time. No promises of sobriety. I couldn’t cure his addiction or stabilize his brain chemistry, not by enabling, stalking, lying, or even love.

I had to change. No gimmicks or alter egos. Just me. It started with a phone call, our numbers no longer blocked. It didn’t go well. There was yelling, accusations, and tears, both parties losing. Then another call. I muted my phone and screamed a rebuttal that went unheard. Then more calls—each interaction an improvement on the last. I practiced what Miss Guardian Angel taught me: be present, don’t judge, be the mother he wanted, not the one I thought he needed. Over time, it became a habit, the kind that’s worth keeping, not kicking.

***

Months later, my phone buzzes on the kitchen counter while I’m standing at the sink. My heart flip-flops. I know it’s P before I look.

I glance at the unblemished surface of the new fridge. I fight the urge to prepare a sermon. A decision tree blooms in my head, a complex path of potential mistakes and consequences. I ignore it, take a breath, and plant my feet on the hardwood floor.

His talking is fast, almost pressured. We don’t argue; we exchange:

He might have a job. That’s awesome.

His car broke down on the highway. Bummer.

He got a ride. From who? I have questions I don’t ask.

The details pile up with good news and bad, a pattern of progress and collapse. Then the conversation detours to a familiar place.

“It’s all your fault,” he tells me.

A match is lit. Not in me, in him. I count to five.

The old me would’ve offered a dozen solutions. She would’ve grabbed hold of the narrative and course-corrected the timeline. She would have contained the burn.

The new me just stands there. I don’t interrupt. I don’t ask about his sobriety or how he can afford to live in a hotel. I listen.

“Ma, you still there?”

“Yeah,” I say. I hear the soft purr of his breath. I let the silence stick. “I love you.”

When we hang up, I dry my hands and reach for my water bottle. I don’t check social media for the truth. I don’t even google how much it costs to fix a carburetor.

I release the impulse to salvage what was never mine to save.

Because saving, it turns out, was never about control. It’s about staying close enough to the fire to keep loving, even when you can’t pull your child out.