Come Home, Son

Photo: Chris and Sophia share a beach towel, Summer 2008, Grand Haven, Mich.
Photo Credit: Dane Robison.

Chris called me today. He was upset, I could tell. His girlfriend of more than one year had broken up with him, though they remain friends. Distraught and broken-hearted, he said he just didn't know what to do, but he couldn't stay there in Boston anymore.

"I have no friends. I know nobody here," he said, his voice filled with pain and sadness.

Why'd he decide to go to Boston in the first place? He had to see about a girl, he said. He loves her, and he knew he had to go, if for no other reason than that he'd regret it for the rest of his life if he let her go without giving it his all. I couldn't blame him, and no one — no one — could have talked him out of it.

His best friend of 17 years had tried, but Chris wouldn't hear it. In his heart, he knew Stephan meant well. He also knew that his friendship with this childhood friend — the one young man who was perhaps as close to being a brother to him as anyone could possibly be — would survive any perceived lapse in judgment. Chris was ready to give away his heart, and Stephan could see, as clear as day, that Chris's heart was about to be shattered, battered, sliced, diced, skewered, beaten and well ... broken.

"He left?" Estephan asked me the day after Chris boarded the bus to Massachusetts. He couldn't have been surprised. Hurt? Maybe. "What an idiot," he said, almost inaudibly.

Me? I didn't try to talk Chris out of it. Though I knew this relationship didn't stand a chance in hell, I wasn't about to stand in the way of his pursuit of happiness and true love. After all, haven't we all been down that road before, blinded by love and foolishly consumed by the intoxicating power it yielded over us? Hadn't I done the very same thing when I married his father? When his father divorced me? When I married his step-father? Every time I'd ever done anything in the name of love, whether for my children, my family, friends or my husband, hadn't it always subconsciously been based on an unconditional love and unequivocal trust? Hadn't I also, on numerous occasions, been on the reciprocating end of their displays of affection?

I remember when he was 5, Chris was watching the Home Shopping Network really early one morning. I was still in bed, feeling very much under the weather. He crept into my bedroom and sweetly asked me if I had a credit card he could borrow.

"What do you need a credit card for, hon?" I asked. It was still dark as night out.

"It's a surprise," he said. "The TV lady's waiting on the phone for me, Mom. It's a surprise, so I can't tell you."

It was a ring. He wanted to buy me a pink sapphire ring, and his innocent desire to express his love for his mother touched me so much more deeply than any gift he could ever have bought me.

We didn't get that ring; couldn't afford it, but I'll never forget him wanting to. Nor the time he sent me a carefully drawn card about the greatness of acts of God, like a mighty tornado. He compared them all to the greatness of me — his mom.

To have been loved by my son is to be loved with a ferocious and deep passion. But falling in love is dangerous for anyone who'd so freely and willingly give so much of himself. Still, is there any other way to love — really, truly love?

I just hope his pain doesn't bury him.

When his father and I divorced, it hurt him. Badly. He changed. His heart got hard. He hated me. He said he couldn't wait to grow up and move out and be on his own. "You ruined my life," he told me over and over again. "When I move out, I'm going to move so far away, and I'm never coming home again." His anger was rooted in pain. I knew that.

Still, when he decided to move to Boston, I thought, "It's so far away."

Sophia? She's a nice kid. Cute as a button, confident. I liked her a lot. I wanted to like her; to love her. But she's just a kid, 20 years old. I don't mean to make any judgments based of her youth. Love works forever for a lot of young lovers. But something about this relationship reminded me of, well, oil and water.

It's hard to watch any of your kids' hearts get broken, but it's all part of growing up. I know his heart will heal in time, and I hope he'll one day take the chance to fall in love again and again. Somewhere along the way, I also hope he discovers all the things that I already know make him so wonderfully unique and worthy of being loved.

"Come home, son," I wrote to him in response to a message he sent me.

It's bittersweet, I know, but I'm glad he's coming home.