On the second night apart, an invisible thread, and the pain of learning to separate too soon
On Saturday, my oldest son went to sleep at his father’s house for the second time.
He left in the late afternoon, happy. He was going to play with his cousins, have dinner at his dad’s and grandmother’s, sleep over. He left excited. And for me, that had to be enough.
I stayed home with the youngest. Every now and then, he ran through the house looking for his brother. Calling for him, not quite understanding why there was no answer. And I felt, at the same time, my heart full and tight. Full, because I knew his brother was happy (living a kind of joy I can’t quite give him here, at least for now). And tight, because one was missing.
The night was ours. Mine and my baby’s. We ran around the house to the sound of music. Laughed until we couldn’t breathe. Invented games, stories, whole little worlds.
We did a bit of everything – or maybe everything all at once. As if we were trying to fill a space you can’t see, but can feel. Time flew.
It was almost midnight when I walked into the kitchen. I was hungry. I grabbed some leftover lasagna and sat down. My phone rang. A video call. It was him. My oldest son – the one I thought was already asleep.
I felt a knot in my throat. And at the same time, I smiled the biggest smile. I answered. And he started crying. He said he didn’t want to sleep there. Or that he only wanted to… if I was there too.
I explained that I couldn’t come. Even though that was all I wanted. He cried. And I tried to keep my voice steady while I was falling apart inside. I asked if he wanted a story. He said yes. Made up. About Masha and the Bear. I told it. He calmed down. For a moment. But as soon as I finished, his eyes filled again. He said he wanted to come home.
I remembered a book we had read together recently: The Invisible String. I told him about that thread that connects us. The one that starts in our belly buttons and ties us to the people we love. Forever. I didn’t even finish the sentence. He interrupted:
“I’m already touching my belly button, Mommy. Can you feel it?”
I told him yes. That I was touching mine too.
“I can feel it too,” he said. And he calmed down a little more. But he was still crying. And I didn’t know how else to help him without being there. So I made something else up.
I told him I would send him messages after we hung up. He loved the idea. Stopped crying. We ended the call. I sent him a voice note. And then some Pokémon gifs – Mewtwo, his favorite.
He replied right away. No more tears. Later, I asked his dad if he was already asleep. It didn’t take long. And that told me everything.
That night, I barely slept. I woke up several times. My body was looking for his. As if it hadn’t been told he wasn’t there.
In the morning, I got up tired, but calm – as much as possible.
It went… as it could go. And still, it hurts. It hurts just thinking that this will happen more often.
We spend our lives preparing for the moment our children leave us. We know they’ll grow up. That they’ll go. That they’ll build their own lives. But no one prepares us for this. For a separation that comes too soon. When they are still so little. When we are still, so much, home to each other.
Can someone please teach me how to live with this absence?
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