Mom-son -1- Site

This is Part 1 of what I’m calling our “Mom-Son” series. Not because I have it all figured out—heaven knows I don’t—but because I need to write my way through this strange, beautiful, heartbreaking transition.

Because this isn’t the end of our story. It’s just Part 1.

So here is my promise for this series—and to myself: Mom-Son -1-

A fist bump.

My son, who used to hold my hand crossing any parking lot as if letting go meant falling into a black hole, pulled his hand away. Not rudely. Not even consciously, I think. He just… dropped it. He walked three full steps ahead of me toward the library door, his shoulders squared, his chin up. This is Part 1 of what I’m calling

It started small. He closes his bedroom door now. He used to leave it open a crack, like a little question mark. Now it’s a period. When I ask about his day, “fine” is a full sentence. When I try to kiss his forehead goodbye at school drop-off, he ducks—just slightly—and gives me a fist bump instead.

I stood frozen for a second, my palm still tingling from where his fingers used to be. It’s just Part 1

I won’t pretend it doesn’t sting. It does. There are mornings I miss the little boy who yelled “MOMMY!” from his crib like I was a rockstar entering the arena.