He was my partner in binge-watching and my movie-going sidekick. He’d handle the popcorn while I brought the chocolate. His laughter could lift my spirits like nothing else. He’s my firstborn. Of course, my husband and daughter provide great company, but the unique connection I share with him—our mutual love for cheesy disaster flicks and sitcoms featuring overbearing moms who ironically make me look good—sets our bond apart.
After years of enduring Barney, Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, Hey Arnold!, and even Buffy the Vampire Slayer (which I never fully embraced), we finally found common ground. If he wasn’t busy with work or hanging out with friends, I was more than happy to be his go-to option. But that arrangement didn’t last long. He returned home after college just long enough to save up for his own place, and I knew, deep down, that it was time for him to spread his wings.
We spent our first day hunting for apartments and found one right away. A week later, the lease was signed, and the reality of him moving out began to sink in. We made the obligatory trips to Ikea and Bed, Bath & Beyond, helping him furnish his new space in a minimalist style. I genuinely felt proud of him, and I shared in his excitement, yet sadness crept in.
I had said my share of goodbyes before, but they weren’t always handled with grace. The nursery school separation had been a breeze, but the goodbye at sleepaway camp was a different story. As we drove away, he and his little sister waved goodbye from the roadside, looking like two forlorn orphans. Meanwhile, they were probably dancing back at camp, while I was a teary mess until we hit the highway.
Then there was the summer program he attended in Ireland. I wasn’t allowed past the airport gate, so I found myself shouting, “Get on the plane with the huge shamrock!” because I worried my 16-year-old wouldn’t make it to the right continent on his own.
A relative of mine who had just moved her oldest to college said she understood my feelings. While that experience is tough, this felt different. This was the moment my son truly became an independent adult, fully supporting himself. There would be no “boomeranging” back home—this was a goodbye that felt final.
For two decades, I had focused on raising him to be self-sufficient, but when the moment finally arrived, it hit me harder than I expected. I had grown fond of this new adult who could often read my thoughts and knew my flaws and guilty pleasures inside out.
He was once that cheerful little boy with the iconic bowl haircut and a smile that could light up a room. From a young age, he engaged easily with adults and could recite every line from his favorite movies. His childhood is captured in the countless framed photos on my shelves—from nursery school to high school. His college yearbook photo, though, is my favorite: there he is, not stiff in a button-up shirt and tie, but relaxed and smiling in a burgundy T-shirt, looking like the young man he’s become.
As we put the final touches on his new apartment before his first night there, I felt tears welling up. Trying to keep my emotions in check, he saw right through me and asked if I was okay. The facade crumbled, and I couldn’t help but let a few tears slip. He responded with a warm embrace, offering me that comforting bear hug.
When everything was set up, I stepped into the hallway, and as I turned to leave, I glanced back at him standing in his doorway. He waved goodbye, his smile radiating pride. I walked down the stairs to my car, hesitant to leave. I gazed up at his window, and as I pulled away from the curb, I realized he was embarking on a new chapter of his life without me. This goodbye felt like no other—a moment of separation filled with both joy and sorrow.
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In summary, as my son leaves home to start his own life, I find myself filled with a conflicting mix of pride and sadness, reflecting on the journey we’ve shared and the independence he’s now embracing.