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.
Mother of only girls