I understood how lonely he must have felt while planning to leave me for my own good.
The second I recognized the line of his shoulders, every fear I’d been running on for two days hit me at once.
“Tom?” I called out.
He looked up. When he saw me, he froze.
I got out and walked until I was standing right in front of him. Then I held up the watch.
“You gave me time?”
His face fell. “Mom, I…”
“You thought leaving was somehow a gift?”
“I thought you’d finally be able to live your own life.”
“You thought leaving was somehow a gift?”
“Tom,” I said softly, “what life do you think I’ve been living?”
“The one you should’ve had, Mom. If you weren’t always taking care of me…”
“You weren’t the reason my life stayed small,” I said. “You were the reason it was full.”
Tom’s face changed in that slow, pained way people’s do when a belief they’ve carried too long starts cracking.
“I did not lose my life because I raised you,” I told him. “I chose my life, Tom. Over and over. I chose you because I wanted you. Being your mother was never the thing that kept me from living.”
His mouth trembled. “I just didn’t want to keep costing you.”
“You never cost me my life, dear. You gave it shape.”
“You weren’t the reason my life stayed small.”
Tom’s shoulders dropped. He covered his eyes with one hand, and I stepped forward and held him the way I had when he was small.
After a long minute, he said, “I’m sorry, Mom.”
“Don’t apologize for loving me badly when all you were trying to do was protect me.”
He gave a wet, embarrassed laugh. “You found me fast.”
“I know what you think. That’s what mothers do.”
Tom glanced toward the yard office. “I took a job here. Rented a room over the feed store.”
“You can tell me on the drive home,” I said.
“Home?”
I slipped the watch into his shirt pocket. “You don’t give love back by leaving. You bring it with you.”
“I’m sorry, Mom.”
Tom sat looking out at the road, then over at me every so often, like he was still confirming I was real.
“I thought if I stayed,” Tom said, “you’d never get to be anything except my mom.”
“Being your mom was never what made my life small.”
He nodded slowly. “I think I knew that sometimes. But then I’d look at everything you didn’t do.”
“You mean all the men I didn’t marry?”
He flushed. “Kind of.”
“Most of those decisions had a lot more to do with them than with you, sweetheart,” I said.
That made him laugh… tired and relieved, but real.
“You’d never get to be anything except my mom.”
“If I come back… can we still talk about college?” Tom then asked.
“Yes. Transferring, engineering, computer science… whatever new major you land on after three hours of internet research.”
He smiled. “I think I still want a future.”
I squeezed his shoulder. “Good. That saves me a speech.”
I’d already called Danny to tell him I’d found Tom, and the relief in his voice had been immediate.
When we pulled into the driveway, Tom turned to me. “Thank you for coming after me.”
“I was always going to.”
