We get a dog. He loves this dog with all his heart. The dog loves him back.
One day his height surpasses mine and, seemingly the next, his father's.
He reads an essay by a sportswriter. It lights a fire in him. He starts to write his own stuff, wandering into my office as I try to juggle freelance assignments.
I feel privileged to read his work.
Orthodontics are removed to reveal straight pearly whites. He earns his first paycheck as a baseball referee but wishes that it had been as a writer.
He learns to do the laundry, scrub the bathroom, and make pasta, though he often professes to forget how to do all three.
He turns 18.
On a cold and rainy Election Day we head out together to vote. After two hours waiting in line, he's the only teen in sight. It's not lost on him -- by the next morning he has written all about it.
He gets a job as a blogger, then starts his own website. And all the while there are macroeconomics, physics, and college applications.
The flip book's down to its last pages.
I've defined myself as a mother for 18 years. Who am I now? I look in the mirror. In my quest to help him grow wings, I forgot to grow some of my own. Can I find a new sense of purpose, rechannel the love?
Before I was a mother I was a daughter, infused with energy and the unspoken reassurance that my parents would always be there. But I can't be a daughter again. I'm on my own.
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