Saying goodbye to my son
He was the love of my life, for about a month.
Then he broke my heart.
I drove home from Alaska to meet him after we were matched. As the sun set behind the Rocky Mountains, I crossed the Kansas prairie daydreaming about the adventures we would have. I imagined him buckled into the back seat of my 1999 Roadtrek camper van, sunglasses on, cruising cross-country to tour the national parks with me.
He held my hand the first time we met, and wrapped his arms around me the second time. On our third visit, he kissed me softly on the lips, and a week later, he said “I love you.” We talked on the phone for an hour every night, getting to know each other, laughing and joking, making plans, never wanting to say goodbye.
He made me homemade cards and gifts—painted heart-shaped ornaments to put on the Christmas tree that we cut together. We took photos in our holiday sweaters. He moved a few things into my house that week, and stayed overnight for the first time. I didn’t know that his first night would also be his last.
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