We take turns tapping our fingers on the couch cushions, copying each other’s rhythms. I shake my hand between his two. He lets me tousle his hair. It feels good to smile with him.

My heart insists I haven’t seen him in days, but it’s only been, what? Not even 12 hours? Just a chunk of time longer than the three or four hours I get a few days a week, those small breaks I fill with errands and quick gasps of writing or reading.

My son locks eyes with me and, for the millionth time, I wonder what he’s thinking. Maybe he missed my face, my presence, and not just me as provider of food and fidgets and fixes. He lets me share his space without telling me to stand up. Maybe my voice sounds less irritating to him after it’s been quiet for a while. I tell him about my day and confess that I missed him.

Whenever I have a full day or rare overnight away, I am not aware while I’m gone that I miss my 24-year-old who needs 24/7 support. I enjoy my solo time with friends or family, savoring activities he’d have no interest in, indulging in conversations not interrupted by perseverations about snacks or the arrangement of household items, remembering who I am when I’m not in charge of his care.

But returning is often an unexpected joy. A reaffirming, and genuine, good feeling.

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https://itslikethis.substack.com/p/34-returning

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