Mom-son -1- May 2026

I stood frozen for a second, my palm still tingling from where his fingers used to be.

I won’t pretend it doesn’t sting. It does. There are mornings I miss the little boy who yelled “MOMMY!” from his crib like I was a rockstar entering the arena.

This is Part 1 of what I’m calling our “Mom-Son” series. Not because I have it all figured out—heaven knows I don’t—but because I need to write my way through this strange, beautiful, heartbreaking transition. Mom-Son -1-

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. I stood frozen for a second, my palm

Stay tuned for Part 2: The First Inside Joke I’m Not a Part Of.

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. There are mornings I miss the little boy who yelled “MOMMY

A fist bump.