I sat on my son’s bed after he’d gone to school and didn’t move for a while

Dear Delyara, His room still smelled of deodorant, laundry powder, and that particular half-boy half-man stage he’s in now. The curtains were half-open, one sock was under the desk, a revision book was face down on the floor, and the mug I told him not to leave upstairs was still on the windowsill. I went in to open the window and collect the mug, but I sat down instead. Just for a minute, I thought. Then I stayed longer. I don’t know why that room makes me emotional lately. Maybe because I can feel him moving away from childhood one ordinary morning at a time. Not in some dramatic cinematic way. Just in the way his shoes look bigger, his voice sounds lower down the stairs, the way university leaflets appear under piles of clothes, the way he closes the door more often now and still, every now and then, leaves it open by accident like the smaller version of him is still somewhere nearby. I sat there looking at his unmade bed and thought how motherhood is full of departures that happen while the person is still technically home.