My son, Lucas, is five years old—full of energy, creativity, and a touch of sensitivity. He’s my firstborn, and my love for him knows no bounds. I express my affection frequently—every morning, before he heads off to school, at bedtime, and throughout the day. However, the times he has reciprocated with “I love you” are few and far between.
Typically, this doesn’t bother me. I know he loves me; when we’ve been apart for a short time, he eagerly runs to me, exclaiming “Mommy!” with pure joy. He instinctively seeks my hand during moments of fear or sadness and often presents me with imaginative drawings filled with monsters and hearts. He shares his thoughts and feelings with me, which reassures me of his love. Yet, there are moments when I deeply crave to hear those words.
About a year ago, shortly after his sister Mia was born, Lucas went through a phase where he would say, “I hate you.” The first time he uttered those words, it felt like a knife to my heart. I calmly explained that such strong words could hurt. He seemed to understand, but then a few days later, while driving home from school, he expressed his frustration over wanting to wear his sister’s new nail polish. When I suggested he ask Mia, I heard him mutter, “I hate you.”
That day, I parked the car, unbuckled the kids, and took the baby to my husband before retreating to my room to cry. I felt overwhelmed; I had given him everything—nurturing, love, life itself—and yet, “I hate you” was the response I received. Eventually, I gathered myself and went back downstairs, only to be met with a wave of emotion as I saw Lucas. He was startled, having rarely seen me cry, and pleaded, “I’m sorry! Don’t cry!” But what I longed to hear was “I love you.”
Days later, as I tucked him into bed, Lucas surprised me by saying, “Mommy, I made a mistake. That time I said I hated you? That was a mistake.” I reassured him that I understood. Although he stopped using those hurtful words, the phrase “I love you” didn’t emerge in its place. Mia, on the other hand, freely expresses her affection, often shouting, “I love you!” even in humorous situations. One night, she declared her love for a relative, prompting Lucas to express uncertainty, saying, “I don’t know if I do.” Love is complex, and for a logical boy like him, it raises many questions.
I thought I had moved past my need for verbal affirmation, but then came a challenging Monday. My husband typically drops off Mia at school while I take Lucas, which can be tough for her given the change in routine. As Lucas and I drove away, we saw Mia’s face pressed against the window, tears streaming down her cheeks. I explained, “She’s feeling really sad. It’s hard for her when Daddy drops her off.” Lucas replied, “I like Daddy,” followed by, “I like Daddy more than you.” Ouch.
I remained calm and said, “That’s not very nice. That hurts my feelings.” Flustered, he quickly added, “I mean, I don’t know. I like both of you. I don’t know who I like more.” While I thought, “Like? Really?” I simply responded, “You don’t need to like either of us more.”
As we continued our drive, a deep desire welled up inside me to hear him say it. Why was it so difficult? He can express love for Ninja Turtles and new crayons but struggles with saying it to me. After a moment, I said, “I love you. I really love you a lot. I know you don’t like to say it, but I know you love me too.”
I glanced at him through the rearview mirror. Instead of shaking his head, he nodded, tears welling in his eyes. He reached out his hand from the back seat, and though we couldn’t quite touch, I reached back. Quoting a favorite show, I said, “I can’t…reach…you.” We both laughed, and even though he didn’t say the words, I felt the connection. I know he loves me.