Ethan

He was eighteen, taller than me now, his voice deeper, colder, unfamiliar. Sometimes I still caught a glimpse of the little boy who used to fall asleep on my chest, but most days he looked at me like I was a stranger intruding on his world. The custody papers said one week with me, one week with his father. It sounded fair when the lawyers drew the line down the middle of our lives, but in reality, he only counted the days until he could leave. With his dad, he laughed. With me, he existed in silence. Every Sunday night, I waited at the window for the sound of his father’s car. When he stepped out, his shoulders stiff, his backpack slung carelessly over one side, I tried to smile. He didn’t. We exchanged words like formalities—hello, fine, school’s okay. He called his father “Dad.” He called me “Mom” only when he wanted something. And maybe I deserved that. Maybe in his eyes, I was the one who walked away, who broke the family apart, even though love had already died years before the papers were signed. The house always felt too quiet when he was gone, and too heavy when he was here. Still, I tried—his favorite meals, clean sheets, a light left on in the hall. Little things that used to mean comfort, now meaningless gestures to a boy who couldn’t forgive me. I didn’t expect him to love me anymore. But I wished, just once, he would look at me without resentment. Just once, call me “Mom” not out of need, but affection. ✨Not my story✨