He was my go-to partner for binge-watching series and movie nights. He’d handle the popcorn while I brought the chocolate. His laughter was contagious, often leaving me in stitches. He is my eldest child. While my husband and daughter provide wonderful company, he and I share a unique connection rooted in our love for cheesy disaster flicks and sitcoms featuring overbearing mothers that make me look rather exceptional.
After years of enduring shows like Barney, Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, Hey Arnold!, and Buffy the Vampire Slayer—none of which I particularly enjoyed—finally, we had found common ground. If he wasn’t busy with work or hanging out with friends, I reveled in being his backup plan. But this arrangement was fleeting. He was home from college just long enough to save money for his own place, which is how it should be. I recognized that the moment of departure was approaching.
We explored a few apartments and, on our first outing, discovered the perfect one. A week later, the lease was signed, and the reality of him moving out hit me like a ton of bricks. We took him on the customary trips to Ikea and Bed, Bath & Beyond, helping him set up his new minimalist living space. I was genuinely happy for him, assisting with his excitement, but deep down, sadness lingered.
I had experienced farewells before, although not always gracefully. The classic nursery school send-off didn’t faze us, but the goodbye at sleepaway camp was a different story. My children stood by the roadside as we drove away, he draped a reassuring arm around his sister’s shoulder and waved at us. I captured that moment in my mind, their somber expressions reminiscent of lost orphans. I was in tears until we reached the highway, while they were back at camp, likely dancing with joy.
Then there was the summer program in Ireland. I was barred from the airport gate, so I found myself shouting, “Get on the plane with the giant shamrock!” as if that would ensure my 16-year-old would find his way to the correct continent unassisted.
My cousin mentioned she understood my current struggle, having just moved her eldest into college. While that is undoubtedly challenging, this feels like something entirely different. This is the moment my son truly becomes an independent adult (he’s fully self-sufficient). No more “boomeranging”—he was leaving for good.
For over twenty years, I aimed to nurture his independence. Yet, when the time came, I found it more difficult than I anticipated. I had grown fond of this new adult who could often read my thoughts and knew my flaws and guilty pleasures better than anyone else.
He was once the cheerful little boy with the perfect bowl haircut and a beaming smile, engaging adults in conversation and reciting lines from every movie he’d seen. His childhood now occupies my den in a series of framed photographs from nursery school, camp, and various grades. His college yearbook photo, however, is my favorite. There he stands, not in an awkward button-up shirt and tie but in a burgundy T-shirt, relaxed and smiling warmly in his cap and gown.
As we organized his belongings for his first night in the new apartment, tears threatened to spill over. I tried to maintain focus, but he saw right through me and asked if I was alright. The facade crumbled, and I briefly lost my grip, embarrassed as a few tears fell. He enveloped me in a big bear hug, fully understanding the moment.
After everything was set up, I stepped out into the hallway. As I turned to head down the stairs, I glanced back at him standing in the doorway of his new home. He waved goodbye and flashed that familiar smile of his, radiating pride. I descended the stairs to my car, sitting there for a moment, reluctant to leave. I gazed up at his lit window, knowing he was embarking on a life of his own without me. This goodbye felt different—more profound than any I had faced before.
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