For ten years, I was his sun. He orbited around me: my schedule, my voice, my hug at the end of a bad day. Now, slowly, he is building his own gravity.
But here’s what I’m discovering in Part 1 of this journey: his pulling away isn’t rejection. It’s the first draft of his independence. Mom-Son -1-
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. For ten years, I was his sun
I will not make him feel guilty for growing up. I will not cry where he can see me (okay, maybe just once). And I will learn to love the fist bump, even while I miss the sticky, small hand in mine. But here’s what I’m discovering in Part 1
I raised this boy from a squalling, milky newborn. I cleaned his scraped knees. I sang him lullabies at 2 AM while the rest of the world slept. And now we communicate in knuckles.
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.
I stood frozen for a second, my palm still tingling from where his fingers used to be.