The Goodbye
I had a vision.
A picture-perfect goodbye. The kind you’d see in a Hallmark movie. Just enough tears to feel it but not enough to embarrass anyone, from me at least. My husband beside me, sad in his own quiet way, holding it together because someone was going to have to. And our son, maybe a glisten in his eyes as we said our last goodbyes.
I even had a script.
Something like: “We are so proud of you. Go be amazing. We’re just a phone call away.” A tasteful farewell, carefully pre-written in my head in the weeks leading up to this dreaded final moment. I had planned on containing myself. Or so I thought.
Here’s what actually happened.
I was bawling, completely blindsided by the overwhelming depth of something I thought I had under control. There I stood, trapping him in a mama-bear hug, definitely making a scene. He was a little stiff, a little awkward, probably a lot embarrassed. No glistening eyes. No movie moment. Just a kid who wanted to get to his new life and a mom who wasn’t ready to let go.
My husband quietly pulled out his phone. Somewhere in the back of my mind I registered the click of the camera. My first thought: I look terrible. These pictures are never seeing the light of day. My second thought, half a second later: be present. Just be in the moment.
The photo he captured, me completely undone and our son enduring it, is not what I imagined. But it’s real.
When I finally took my first step away, I noticed a woman nearby. She had a kid beside her too. She caught my eye and gave me a small smile. No words. Just knowing.
As we walked away, I kept replaying the scene in my head. Did I embarrass him? Why didn’t he cry? I was the starring role in my own ugly-cry moment. That’s not the goodbye I wanted for us. Maybe focusing on all of that was easier than thinking about how it actually felt.
Back at the hotel room, the loop continued. Wondering how I could have done it better. Snapping at my husband about the photos. “You’d better delete those before we share anything with the family.” Distracting myself with questions that didn’t matter instead of sitting with the one that did.
I had just hugged my baby for the last time in months. And I wasn’t ready to let go.
He was ready. I was not.
Nobody Warns You About the Quiet
The flight home is its own kind of grief, forcing you to live through the separation all over again. This time the distance is both literal and symbolic. Checking bags. Navigating security. Waiting for your boarding group to be called. Walking the jet bridge. The plane taxiing slowly away from the gate. Lift off. Cruising altitude. Every step pulling you further and further away from the person you just left behind.
Nobody warns you about any of it.
The house is strange. His room sits there exactly as he left it, and I don’t quite know what to do with myself.
So I wait for him to call.
And when he finally called, I blew it.
I crammed everything into the few precious minutes. How are your classes? How’s the dorm food? Who have you met so far? Are you getting along with your roommate? Do you need anything? Are you getting enough sleep?
I could feel him being polite. That particular brand of teenage patience that means I’m wrapping this up now. I was the one doing all the talking. He was the one waiting for it to end.
And that’s when the real panic set in. Not about him. About us. Was I nagging? Was I supposed to share about my day? Was he supposed to ask? What exactly are we supposed to talk about now that we don’t share the same roof? For eighteen years the conversations happened naturally, in the car, at dinner, passing by his room late at night. Now I had to schedule intimacy into a five minute phone call and I had no idea what I was doing.
I even asked myself the question I wasn’t ready to ask. Did we have a good relationship? Do we?
So What Actually Works?
I’m still figuring it out. But here’s what I’ve learned the hard way:
One question, not ten. Pick the thing you most want to know. Ask that. Stop there. Let the conversation breathe.
Texts over calls. A quick “thinking of you” asks nothing of them. It just keeps the door open.
Follow their lead. If he calls, he wants to talk. If he doesn’t, he’s probably fine. Busy. Growing. Figuring it out. Which is exactly what he’s supposed to be doing.
Don’t fix everything. Sometimes he just wants to vent. Resist the urge. Let him.
Ask about something fun. What’s the best thing you ate this week? What made you laugh? Those questions actually get answers.
I spent eighteen years holding his hand. I just didn’t realize I was also teaching him how to let go of mine.
Now I Want to Hear From You
Every family finds their own rhythm. Some kids call every day. Some go quiet for weeks and everyone’s perfectly fine.
How are you navigating it?
- How often do you actually talk?
- What questions keep him engaged?
- What have you figured out, the easy way or the hard way?
Drop it in the comments. We’re all learning as we go. Let’s help each other along the way.