You are not my boyfriend.

But how I wish I had a boyfriend like you when I was young.  Who carried you inside when you are sick.  Who gave thoughtful presents. Who wrote tender love notes.

And you are not my son.

Smart.  Conversant on any subject.  A writer of thank yous.  A bringer of hostess gifts.

But I mourn you now as a little  bit of each — the boyfriend I never had.  The son I never had.

There is a hole in my Christmas list.  There is an empty seat at the table.

I tell my daughters, this is not about me.  This is about you.  What’s right for you.  What I feel doesn’t matter.

It doesn’t matter, but it does hurt.

Very sincerely,

Mother of only girls