I waited for him to come back from college and as soon as he entered the house, I stopped him and asked him, “Son, your dad is out of town on a business trip. Could you stay home in his absence to keep me company?”
He really couldn’t say no and I wasn’t going to accept a no. I wanted him to stay home so we could hash it out. With his father gone, we had all the time in the world to deal with our situation.
I felt very depressed, even hurt. My heart was breaking as I realized that I was about to end a relationship that never even got started. I was surprised how strong my feelings were and it was amazing that I had fallen so hard for him, knowing full well that there was no possibility of a union between us. For a second, I thought of throwing myself at his feet and begging for him to give me one night, but then that would be impossible. The thought was painful, either way.
He was quiet all the way through supper. I was also withdrawn. As we were done and there was that slight pause before getting up to put dishes away, I said to him, “Son, we need to have a serious conversation. Please give me a chance to explain things to you. I want to clear the air if possible and may be, just may be, we can get back to where we were before.”
I looked at him and found him looking down into his empty plate. He stayed quiet.
“Son, answer me please. Would you come and talk to me after I am done clearing up?”
He nodded in affirmative.
I put things away quickly and went to my room to get ready for our talk. I had planned to hold my talk with him in the TV room because that’s where I had mucked everything up the last time. I wanted to brush up quickly and maybe even prepare a cup of coffee, just like that night, before he came from freshening up.
As I stepped out of the bathroom, I found him standing in my door. I realized then that he had understood my “come and talk to me” to mean that he should come to my room and talk to me. It was okay with me. Actually it was a lot easier to talk in a casual way in my room than in a rigid way as I would have done downstairs on the sofa.
I grabbed his hand as a friendly gesture and led him to my bed. He sat on the side my dresser was and I pulled my little stool and sat next to the bed facing him. I held both of his hand in mine, looked deep into his eyes, and asked him in my best maternal voice, “Now, tell me, are you so angry with me that you can’t even face me and have to stay away from me?”
He was looking at his hands—well at our hands. He mumbled something but I couldn’t quite catch all the words.
I leaned forward and said, again in my best maternal voice, “Son, I can’t hear you. Can you please say it again?”
My face was close to his and my eyes were focused on his forehead. He tried to avoid looking at me and repeated, “I am not mad at you, mom.”
“Then what is the problem. Why are you staying away from me?”
He hesitated. I squeezed his hand to get him to say what was on his mind.
He finally relented, “I am not staying away from you, mom. I am running away from you.”