Letting My Son Fly

My son came home with his fiancée, announcing they’d live together. My heart swelled—his happiness was all I wanted. I told them to grab tea while I packed his bags. “What bags?” he asked, confused. I smiled; he’s like his father, slow to catch on. “If you’re building a life together, face its challenges,” I said. He protested—rent’s high, they’re students, they’d stay here quietly. I knew better. I’d lived with my mother-in-law once—smiles turned to

tension. I wouldn’t let that happen. “Do you love him?” I asked her. “So much,” she whispered, eyes bright. “Then any corner can be home,” I said. “I’ll help you start, but don’t forget this ‘old lady.’” She laughed, “Old? You’re 40 years from that!” After they left, I cried. Keeping him close was tempting, but kids are meant to fly. I raised him, loved him. Now it’s their turn. I’ll watch them soar.