He was my go-to companion for binge-watching TV shows and enjoying movie marathons. He’d handle the popcorn while I grabbed the chocolate. With a knack for making me laugh until I couldn’t breathe, he’s my firstborn son. While my husband and daughter are wonderful company, the unique bond I share with him—rooted in our mutual love for cheesy disaster films and sitcoms featuring overbearing mothers—has always been special.
After years filled with shows like Barney, Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, and Buffy the Vampire Slayer—none of which ever quite caught my interest—we finally found common ground. Whenever he was not at work or hanging out with friends, I was more than happy to be his backup plan. But that arrangement was fleeting. He returned home after college just long enough to save up and move out, and I knew that moment was approaching.
Our apartment search was surprisingly efficient; we found the perfect spot on our very first outing. Within a week, the lease was signed, and the reality of him leaving home was hitting me hard. We took him on the classic Ikea and Bed, Bath & Beyond shopping trips, helping him furnish his new minimalist space, and loaded up the SUV as we had done on multiple occasions during his college years. I was excited for him, sharing in his joy, but a sense of sadness lingered.
I had navigated my share of goodbyes before, often with mixed results. The nursery school separation barely fazed us, yet the farewell at sleepaway camp left me in tears. I still remember how he and his little sister waved goodbye, looking like two lost souls, while I sobbed uncontrollably until we reached the highway. Unbeknownst to me, they were back at camp, having the time of their lives.
Then there was the summer program in Ireland, where I was prohibited from going to the airport gate. I found myself shouting, “Get on the plane with the big shamrock!” as I clung to the hope that my 16-year-old would navigate the journey successfully.
A friend who recently moved her oldest child to college sympathized with me, but I had to admit that this was different. This was the moment my son truly stepped into adulthood, self-sufficient and ready to carve out his own path. The prospect of him not returning home felt daunting and final.
For over two decades, my goal had been to nurture his independence, but when the moment finally arrived, I found myself grappling with unexpected emotions. I had grown deeply fond of this young man who could read my thoughts and knew my quirks better than anyone.
He had been the cheerful little boy with the iconic bowl haircut and an infectious smile, who from a tender age could hold conversations with adults and quote lines from every movie he’d watched. As I glanced around the den, framed photos from nursery school, camp, little league, and high school told the story of his childhood. His college yearbook photo, proudly displayed in my bedroom, captured him relaxed and authentic, wearing a burgundy T-shirt beneath his graduation gown—my favorite image of him.
As we organized his belongings for his first night in his new apartment, I felt tears threatening to spill. I attempted to focus on the task at hand, but he could see through my facade. When I momentarily lost my composure, he enveloped me in a warm bear hug, his understanding comforting.
Once everything was set, I stepped out of his apartment into the hallway. Before heading down the stairs, I stole a glance back at him standing in his new doorway. He waved goodbye, his proud smile illuminating the moment. I walked to the car, lingering for a few minutes, reluctant to leave. As I gazed up at his lit window, I knew he was embarking on a new chapter of his life without me, and this goodbye was unlike any other.
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In summary, saying goodbye to my firstborn as he steps into adulthood has been a profound experience—filled with joy, pride, and a touch of sadness. It marks the beginning of a new chapter for both of us, one filled with endless possibilities.
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