“You seem a little quiet, is everything okay? You went on that hike today and were gone a long time.”

“Oh, sorry ma. After the hike I actually ended up reading at the library. My car was parked there, and I went in to get warm. You know how I love libraries.”

Hmmm… that wasn’t really answering my question.

Connor and I sat across from each other in an aging red leather booth at Jackson’s Mighty Fine Food. We’d beat the post-Thanksgiving Saturday evening rush, and were enjoying having the popular restaurant mostly to ourselves during a senior-citizen-style 4pm meal.

I’d just finished my cheeseburger; Connor, his brick chicken and broccoli, plus most of my fries.

Our waitress floated in and out, dropping off a straw, a napkin, more rolls. In the relative silence, I steeled myself, broaching the subject that had been weighing on my mind.

“Okay, manny, but what else is going on. Did I say something that ticked you off?”

He looked at me, baffled, and then finally figured out what I was really talking about. “No, no, it’s nothing about you… Honestly, ma, I just don’t feel like I belong here anymore. Virginia is fine. It’s where I grew up. But it’s not me.”

I blinked. Several times.

He continued, “I’ve been to places around the world that feel more me. Where there are real mountains. Where the hiking trails are a stones-throw away. Where I can ski in November. You know, the stuff I love. I can’t do that here. Not like I can living in Denver.”

After a too-long pause, I did my best to rebound.

“Oh! Okay then, well I’m glad you found a place you love so much, Connor. No issues. We’ll make sure we plan in the future to maybe get you back a day or two early. Maybe this lingering in Virginia after Thanksgiving is not optimal.”

”Thanks ma, that’s a great idea. Let’s plan for that.”

Just 60 days into Connor’s new season as a working stiff, his move to Denver, his first foray into no-joke adulting, he’s fallen in love.

This relationship is not a flash in the pan or love at first sight. It’s been building for some time. He’s had an ongoing connection with Colorado for one week each year for the past decade, plus an entire summer fling back in 2022. And now Colorado is what he longs for. Colorado is his home.

As this realization slowly spread through my body like the ketchup oozing across my plate, my cheeseburger-filled stomach lurched. This was different than all the times he had left home before — college in New York, a summer in L.A., a semester in New Zealand. Those were boomerang experiences, bringing him back to my doorstep when the adventure was done. But in this moment, with my useless hands folded on my lap, I realized those were all just dress rehearsals for what was unfolding now.

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Prior to the red-leather-booth confessional, I’d been convinced I’d stuck the landing, patting myself on the back for successfully navigating his departure from my nest.

So I was not ready for the way this realization hit me right between the eyes — this kid will never live under my roof again.

Oof.

And then I ignored all I’ve learned in the last nine years of studying and processing grief, and did what I’ve always done. I dragged out my mental props and set decorations, preparing the stage for my favorite four-act play:

Act 1: Beat myself up

How can something I’ve pined for, orchestrated, micromanaged, supported, and suffered for not lead to warm fuzzies and unending bliss? How can I be unhappy about the exact outcome I could only dream of when this kid was a baby chick in an incubator, perilously close to never leaving the Georgetown NICU? How could I so deeply want something for someone I love, then be unhappy when they get it?

Act 2: Rail against the change

Things will never be the same. I’ll never have Connor close by on the regular, his seismic steps rocking the treehouse as he sprints up and down the stairs. The smell of multiple packets of Quaker Maple & Brown Sugar oatmeal cooking in the microwave. His crazy post-sleep hair standing on end in crop-circle-like patterns that scientists should study. His mid-conference call hugs, when he can’t help but slide into my office even when he knows I’m busy. I’m being ROBBED.

Act 3: Mourn

Finally, I just let myself be sad. I wallowed in it. I walked around Great Falls park like a backpack-sporting zombie. I talked to Leona. To Kavon. To Kendall. I gave myself some grace, and then just sat in the mess.

Act 4: Accept

After what was apparently the right amount of rumination, talking, nature, sadness, or maybe leftover apple pie — nothing that can be measured on a clock or a chart, just the amount of time that’s unique to all of us in every single circumstance — I stumbled into acceptance. Yep, this is the way it is. I accept that Connor’s job is to find what works for him and reject what doesn’t, whether that’s people or places. To grow into adulthood on his own terms. And it’s my job to let him.

While I’m no Tom Stoppard (RIP), this is my standard four-act play. Actors, contexts, props, and scenes come and go. But this is how it usually plays out for me.

However, while I always think that when the curtain falls on Act 4, that’s the end of the story… it never actually is. Predictably, an unpredictable thing happens next. An encore.

Unlike in a play, my real-life encore doesn’t happen right away. I usually have to run through mini versions of those first four acts a few more times, which also make me sure the encore definitely isn’t coming. But eventually, once I’ve built up momentum and actually begin moving ahead, life becomes ripe for it. Generally the encore is something surprising; I could not have hoped for it because I could not have imagined it. It doesn’t fill the hole of my grief or make the change all hunky dorey. Simply, it’s what steps into the vacuum created by the change.

And so life proves yet again that it won’t ever stop it’s unfolding. It doesn’t matter how devastated I was when I realized things would never be the same. It will grow something I can’t see coming.

In that predictable unpredictability, I find consolation.

On the last day of Connor’s visit, Uncle Richie rolled up in his white Jeep, ready for the airport run. As he helped Connor carry his duffle bag, roller bag, backpack and winter coat, the two of them started joking around like the 60- and 23-year-old delinquents they are.

“Hey, I want to take a picture of the two of you, stand still!” I tried to get their attention amidst the smack talk and laughter.

Like two frat bros with mischief on their minds, they looped their arms around each other’s necks a little too tightly. They discreetly balled their fists to see who would sock each other first.

Exasperated, I sighed, “Geez, come ON you two. Stand still for a second.”

They gave each other a steely gaze. Then they obeyed.

And in that moment, right in front of me, was an encore from a nearly decade-old four act play. It breaks my heart that Mike isn’t here, but if he had been, I wouldn’t get to watch these two goofy boy-men, thick as thieves, wrestling in the driveway of a home built to help us heal.

I hug Connor goodbye. I’ll see him at Christmas, and enjoy some solitude to process this change between now and then. And it will be a little bit easier because life won’t let me get too far before reminding me it’s got a trick or two up it’s sleeve.

To the encore,

Sue

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