Just around the corner is a little house that I once dreamed of buying for our son and his wife to live in.  They are divorced and gone.  Both gone.  Our son is living with another woman, who has a child.  We’ve met once to be introduced, once by chance in the entrance to Target.  Our daughter says he’s going to propose to her and, should it happen, it will mean a daughter-in-law we don’t really know, a granddaughter we don’t really know, in addition to the son I no longer feel I know, and yet know too much.  Having lived his life with two sets of parents, he’s finally reduced himself to a manageable number–one mom, one (step)dad.  I got a texted happy mother’s day I think, and his dad got the same.   

When I come home from anywhere, and turn the corner on that little house, every time, every time, I have a pang of nostalgia and, despite how bad things became, I wish for a moment that they were in that house, that I could turn in the drive and stop for a chat, that they would be in the yard and wave a friendly hello, stop over later for dinner or to have a beer and shoot the shit.  

I’ve lost this son so many times that I’m not sure how we ever had him and I’m much less that certain that we’ll ever find him, or he’ll ever find us, again.  

Until then, I pretend he’s in the little house on the corner, still loves us and likes us, and will be over when he gets the time.

 

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