Chapter 20
Leo left for college at the end of August.
We helped him move into his dorm.
We carried boxes.
We made his bed.
We hung his posters.
We met his roommate—a nice kid from Chicago who liked the same video games as Leo.
And then it was time to go.
I hugged him.
I held on for as long as I could.
“Call me when you get to class,” I said. “Call me before you go to bed. Call me if you need anything. Anything at all. Even if it’s three in the morning. Even if you just want to talk. My phone is always on. Always.”
“Mom,” he said, laughing. “I’ll be fine. It’s only two hours away. I’ll be home for Thanksgiving. And Christmas. And every weekend I can.”
I let go.
David hugged him.
They did that manly back-pat hug.
But I saw David’s eyes.
They were wet.
“Be good,” David said. “Study hard. Be kind. And remember what we talked about. Courage isn’t the absence of fear. It’s going anyway.”
“Got it, Dad,” Leo said.
We got in the car.
We drove away.
I watched him in the rearview mirror.
He was standing in the parking lot, waving.
Getting smaller and smaller.
Until he was gone.
I cried all the way home.
David held my hand.
He didn’t tell me to stop.
He just let me cry.
The house was too quiet when we got back.
Too empty.
No music blaring from Leo’s room.
No friends running in and out.
No soccer cleats by the front door.
No wet towels on the bathroom floor.
Just silence.
David made me tea.
We sat on the couch.
“He’s going to be amazing,” David said.
“I know,” I said. “I just… I miss him already.”
“Me too,” David said.
But life went on.
As it always does.
We threw ourselves into work.
Into the foundation.
Into each other.
We started taking dance lessons.
Salsa.
We were terrible at it.
We stepped on each other’s toes.
We laughed so hard we could barely stand up.
But we went every week.
Because it was ours.
Something just for us.
We redecorated the house.
We turned Leo’s old room into a guest room.
With a nice bed.
And bookshelves.
And photos of him all over the walls.
We left his treehouse exactly as it was.
The flag still flew.
The rope bridge still swayed.
The secret compartment still had a few old, melted candy bars in it.
Some things were too precious to change.
That Thanksgiving, Leo came home.
He walked in the door.
And for a second, he was seven years old again.
Running to us.
Hugging us.
“Mom! Dad!” he said. “I missed you so much!”
He’d grown another inch.
He had a new haircut.
He was wearing a flannel shirt Emma had bought him.
But he was still our boy.
We had the best Thanksgiving ever.
Just the three of us.
Turkey.
Stuffing.
Pie.
And stories.
So many stories.
About classes.
About his friends.
About Emma.
About how he’d aced his first midterm.
About how he’d realized that college was hard, but he could do it.
That he was strong enough.
That we’d raised him right.
After dinner, we sat on the porch.
The leaves were falling.
The air was crisp.
Leo was between us.
One arm around me.
One arm around David.
“Guys,” he said. “I have something to tell you.”
We both tensed.
“What is it, baby?” I said.
He smiled.
“I got the internship,” he said. “The one at the engineering firm. The one I applied for last month. I start in January. It’s paid. And they said if I do well, they’ll hire me full-time when I graduate.”
We screamed.
We hugged him.
We cried.
Our boy.
Our amazing, wonderful, perfect boy.
He was going to be okay.
May you like
Better than okay.
He was going to be extraordinary.
