It’s been an eventful three months since my eldest son left for his first semester at college. Now that he’s back home, my heart is filled with joy that nothing can diminish. The number of dirty dishes in the sink has doubled, and the washing machine is once again groaning under the weight of his clothes. The refrigerator door has swung open and shut so many times this evening that I half-expect it to break.
He looks great—healthy and happy. His excitement is palpable as he shares stories about campus life. I can’t help but smile as I listen to his laughter echo through the kitchen, a sound that is both delightful and bittersweet.
As we gather around the table, our family bombards him with questions. His father inquires about his classes and grades, while I reminisce about a week ago when he wasn’t here. The yogurt spoiled because he wasn’t around to eat it, the orange juice soured, and the bananas turned brown—all reminders that my shopping habits still haven’t adjusted to his absence.
His first semester has been a success, filled with everything he hoped for. As he catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror, he proudly mentions his healthy eating habits—less starch and more protein. I hold back a chuckle, knowing how effortlessly youthful he looks at 19. He’s strong and solid, and hugging him feels like wrapping my arms around a sturdy tree. When I ask about his sleep and overall well-being, he beams and tells me he’s thriving, working hard, and meeting fascinating people. His enthusiasm lights up the room.
I can recall the first glimpse I had of this new phase in his life. It was during his kindergarten days when I would pick him up after just a few hours apart. His excitement was overwhelming as he shared tales of projects and stories from his teacher, and while I cherished his joy, I felt a pang in my chest realizing that he was embarking on a journey that would often exclude me.
Time has a way of slipping through our fingers. It’s strange how we often feel disconnected from the years we live, especially when surrounded by the remnants of the past. I see the green footstool I painted for him, once essential for reaching the sink, now a mere artifact of a different time. It stands there, a silent witness to the changes that have unfolded.
I find myself eager to know every detail about his life away from home. I wait for a quiet moment to ask him about his haircut, his favorite pasta spot, and whether he felt lonely the first night he spent away from us.
- “Are your boots warm enough?”
- “Do you use a buddy system when you go out? Please say yes.”
- “Why don’t I ever see pictures of you wearing a hat? Do you need another one?”
Understanding these little things helps me visualize him even when he’s miles away. I can picture him at 9:01 or 2:50 or 11:09, living his life.
Things have changed. The duffel bag in his room serves as a constant reminder that his time here is a visit, not a return. It’s a strange realization—your child now comes to visit.
As I watch him describe his new life, I am surprised at how well I cope. I always believed that when he left, I would feel lost, wandering aimlessly and struggling to adjust to life without one of my children. Yet here I am, thrilled for his success, relieved by his happiness, and grateful for his adjustment. All these feelings coexist with the lump in my throat. He is home, but it’s not the same as it was for the first 18 years. Still, I find peace in knowing he is flourishing. It’s remarkable how love can overshadow the ache I thought I would feel.
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In summary, my son’s visit home has brought joy and reflection. While the dynamics have shifted since he went to college, I embrace his newfound independence and success, marveling at how love can transform the experience of letting go.