After a long three months apart, my eldest son has returned home from his first semester at college, and tonight, I can’t wipe the smile off my face. The sink is full of dinner dishes, the washing machine is working overtime, and the refrigerator door has been opened and closed so often, I half-expect it to start smoking.
He looks great—healthy and genuinely happy. His energy fills the kitchen as he shares stories about life on campus, and his laughter grips my heart in a way that feels both wonderful and bittersweet. Our family gathers around him, eager to ask questions. His father inquires about his classes and grades. I can’t help but reflect on how just last week, he wasn’t here. The yogurt has gone sour without him to finish it, the orange juice is turning tart, and the bananas are browning—all reminders that I still haven’t quite figured out how to shop for a home without him.
His first semester away has been everything he hoped for. When he glances in the mirror, he proudly mentions eating less starch and more protein, noting how good it looks on him. I suppress the urge to remind him that it’s easy to look good at 19. He’s strong and solid, and wrapping my arms around him feels like embracing a sturdy tree. When I ask how he’s feeling and sleeping, he replies that everything is fantastic. He talks about working hard and meeting amazing people, his eyes sparkling with excitement.
I had a glimpse of this phase of his life when he was just starting kindergarten. After a long four hours, he burst through the door, overflowing with stories about projects, books, and what the teacher had said that day. His joy was infectious, but I felt a pang in my chest at the realization that his life was now going to include moments without me.
Time flies by, and I often feel like we’re not fully present in the years we’re living, surrounded by reminders of the past. I notice the green footstool I painted for him, now a relic of a time when he needed it to reach the sink. How is it still in that corner? It seems like it could never serve its original purpose again.
Now, I find myself wanting to ask him everything. When we finally have a moment alone, I inquire about where he gets his hair cut, if he’s found a great pasta place nearby, and whether the first night away felt strange. I also ask, “Are your boots warm enough? Do you use a buddy system when you go out? Please say yes.” And I can’t help but wonder, “Why don’t I ever see pictures of you wearing a hat? Do you need another one?” Knowing these details helps me visualize him during the days we’re apart. I can picture him at 9:01, 2:50, or 11:09.
Things feel different now. The duffel bag in his room serves as a constant reminder that this is just a visit. Ponder that—your child visiting.
As I watch him share stories about this new life of his, I’m struck by how well I’m handling it. I always thought I’d be lost when he left, imagining myself wandering around aimlessly, grappling with life without one of my children. Instead, I find joy in his accomplishments, relief that he has adapted, and gratitude for his happiness—all while feeling a lump in my throat. He’s home, but not in the same way he was for the first 18 years, and yet, I’m okay. I’m amazed at the strength of love, powerful enough to push aside the feelings I thought I would have—the ache of separation.
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Summary
The author reflects on her son’s return home after his first semester at college, capturing the bittersweet nature of his visit. She shares her joy in his newfound independence while grappling with the reality of him living apart. The experience highlights the strength of love and the importance of adapting to change, both for the parent and the child.