We broke up Wednesday. It's the wee hours of Saturday now, so, two days and some change. The first thing I thought when it happened was how this was the sort of thing I'd tell you. The second thing I thought was how terrible it was you weren't around for me to tell.
The tragedy isn't and was never losing him, it was losing you. No matter what frivolous boys enter and exit my life stage left, I know that you are one of the handful of people, maybe the only person, that has always been there for me and will always be there for me.
I want so badly to know you're okay, for you to come back so I can fill you in on the stupid, the pointless, the minutia. Like how today when I went to leave the child I teach, the child who screams, the one I thought hated me, I want to tell you about how when I left today, he started to cry. He said, "mommy, hold you." He's two, almost three, and autistic, and that is his three year old autistic way of asking me to hold him. He hates being touched, especially by people he doesn't know or like. I want to tell you about how I asked him, "Do you want me to hold you?" and he said, "Yes," so sad, so resolute, and cralwed into my lap. When I tried to move him, he'd hyperventilate and ask again for me to hold him, his tiny face screwed up in anxiety. I did my paperwork balancing a baby boy against my body. I want to tell you that it's these small moments that let me know I will be okay in the face of whatever, and I can't, because you're off growing up. It's so difficult to go through, you growing up, even though it's a wonderful thing.
We will be alright, in the end. Just you wait. Twenty more days.