“He says to have fun and bring him a slice of coconut cake,” I said after the phone buzzed with a response. Soon, I wouldn’t be able to do those little things for my son. “It’s going to be so weird without him.”
“Yeah,” said Brad. “But it’s also a new start for all of us.”
“It is,” I said, but the familiar lump rose in my throat. My little boy, now six foot three. High school had flown past in a blur of driving to and from Nauset High School, parent-teacher conferences, projects and proofreading his papers. I’d spent thousands of hours sitting on the bleachers, watching him at first stand on the sidelines, then become a starter on the football team. He grew seven inches in three years. He had a girlfriend and was on the honor roll most semesters. He was, and always had been, a wonderful son, good-natured and hardworking and funny, and my heart had been aching since September, when the clock began ticking.
Brad was quiet, too. I reached over and patted his leg, and he glanced at me with a quick smile that didn’t reach his eyes. Yes. He was feeling it, too.
Five more weeks before Dylan left for football camp. Five weeks left of the life I’d known these past two decades, happier than I could have imagined. Dylan’s birth when I was barely twenty-three, easy and routine and miraculous. Buying our house on Herring Pond from my dad, ensuring that it stayed in the family, and working for years on its renovation. Getting my certified nurse-midwife degree online （from Georgetown!）。 I worked part-time until Dylan was sixteen and no longer needed me to drive him around, which I missed more than I’d expected.
Every single day from his birth onward had been based around taking care of him, whether it was walking the floor the first three months of his life, or making him a steak after school during his growth spurt. Talking with him in the car when he still sat in the back seat, hearing things that he wouldn’t admit at the dinner table . . . a girl he liked, a bad dream he’d had. Teaching him to drive . . . the time when he’d finally mastered parallel parking the night before his test, and had leaped out of the car to hug me—one of the last spontaneous hugs I’d had from him. Oh, he hugged me every day. Just . . . you know. In an obligatory way.
In five weeks, I wouldn’t even see him every day. I might not talk to him every day. If he was sick, I couldn’t help. If he broke his leg, I wouldn’t be there.
But that’s what you want as a parent. For your kids to grow into independent, self-sufficient adults. If you do your parenting job right, you’re guaranteed heartbreak when the fledgling flies off and leaves you behind. I sent a thought of sympathy to the mama swallow.
I reminded myself that I was also a wife, a daughter, a friend, a sister. A midwife. A woman about to go to Europe for the first time ever. It would be good to reconnect with Brad, too, because this past year had been so focused on our boy. The last trip we’d taken had been three years ago, when we drove cross-country. Seeing Yellowstone was the reason Dylan was going to school in Montana.
Maybe we could swing a special vacation every year or so, just Brad and me. And sure, Dylan could come if he was on break. We could rent out our house for the month of July and that would pay for the trip. Many adventures still waited for us, I told myself firmly. The best years were still ahead. Traveling, our son in this final phase of childhood, then becoming a man, and hopefully a husband and father. Many adventures, for sure.
We turned off Route 6 and headed down 6A, past the Days’ Cottages, each one named after a different flower. When Dylan was little, we’d read every plaque with great enthusiasm—Daisy! Aster! Zinnia! Cosmos! When had that stopped? That constant surge of nostalgia made my throat tighten for the umpteenth time that day.
When Brad turned onto Commercial Street, Provincetown’s main street, I automatically checked out the gardens, which were in full spring glory—lilacs and peonies, clematis and irises. My own garden didn’t get full sun, being in the woods, so these were a visual feast. There was my mother’s house. Beatrice, my stepmother, was out in the garden, a big straw hat on her head adorned with a jaunty red scarf. Even in the dirt, she looked glamorous and European. I lifted my hand, but she didn’t see me, which was fine.
As we came into the center of town to park, pedestrians and bicyclists meandered on the street. Already so busy, and it wasn’t even Memorial Day. We inched along, smelling the good smells of the dozens of restaurants and cafés. A gorgeous night in the prettiest town ever.
It was a point of pride to be the daughter of a Portuguese fisherman, and I always felt so welcomed in this town （except by my mother, that is）。 I knew the other fishermen by name, knew the harbormaster, knew the longtime bartender at the Governor Bradford, knew just about every scruffy townie leaving the dock. And everyone knew I was Pedro Silva’s daughter. The Portuguese fishing industry was still alive and well—my father had retired a couple of years ago, but we still went to the Blessing of the Fleet and the Portuguese Festival each year. Dad, never one to sit still, went out a few times a week with Ben Hallowell, who’d bought the Goody Chapman from him.