I remember the exact moment my heart finally broke.
My adult son and I were sitting in the kitchen. I casually asked if he was coming to Sunday Mass with the family. He didn’t just say no. He sighed, rolled his eyes, and looked at me with cold exhaustion.
"Mom, stop. I don't believe in that stuff anymore."
The room went completely freezing. For the next few years, the nightmare only got worse. He stopped praying. He stopped coming around. He seemed constantly angry, deeply lost, and endlessly glued to his phone, soaking in the dark, confusing mess of the modern world.
Every time I tried to talk to him about Jesus, it turned into a fight. The more I pushed, the further he drifted. Eventually, the text messages stopped.
I was terrified I was going to lose him forever.
I spent nights crying, blaming myself.
Where did I go wrong? Is this a generational curse? How did the devil get such a hold on my boy?
Then, I realized a painful truth: My words were no longer reaching him.
Every time I brought up faith, I pushed him further away. I was completely helpless. I couldn't force him to believe, but I also refused to let the world steal my child’s soul. I knew my time to help him was running out.
If I couldn't talk to him, I needed something that would do the praying for me. I needed a bypass. A physical prayer.