I stood at the kitchen sink, washing dishes or vegetables, when I heard a clattering at the front door. A pair of feet too large for the skinny legs they supported thundered through the mudroom and to the kitchen doorway. 

“I got it Ma!” his voice exclaimed, “I got my license!”

I turned swiftly and allowed an animated smile turn up my mouth and touch my eyes.

“Can I take it? The car?” he asked, eyes bursting with hope and pride. I’d barely voiced my consent when he, and our car keys, disappeared. With a chuckle, I turned back to the sink, alone again. I should have become used to being left alone by then. But I wasn’t. 

As I always did, I prayed. I prayed for his safe return. I shook my head with a grin. I couldn’t believe he was old enough to drive.

The next day, he insisted we drive to church. It would have been quicker to walk, but I handed him the keys and happily took my place in the passenger seat. After the service, I asked him if he’d like to take a drive. We both knew he’d much prefer to go out on his own, but he agreed jovially, revved the engine, and turned toward the highway. 

Sitting in our old monster of a car, the top down and warm summer wind whipping our hair, I realized that I had my camera in my purse. I pulled it out and insisted on taking his picture: the new driver. He turned his face toward me when I instructed, lifting his hand to tip his hat, and grinning an embarrassed but genuine smile. 

And in that moment, I felt as if all of my prayers had been answered. We’d done it. We’d survived loss and grief and the struggle of sixteen years. In that moment he was so grown, so happy, and everything seemed full. 

Years passed. Most things stayed the same: the small house, the tired town, even me. But he changed- he was always changing. His smile lost most of its youthful glow, his form became stronger, stabler, his baggy slacks and sweaters were replaced by a uniform. And then he left. On a quiet Tuesday morning, when only the two of us and the birds were awake. I held him in a hug for far too brief a time, and held in my tears until he was gone. I watched through strong, hopeful eyes as he passed the old car and turned down the street toward the bus station. 

I always knew he would follow in his father’s footsteps. Leave me here alone. I prayed day and night for his safe return. And I was granted it. Sometimes it was just for a day, usually less than a week. One year, he even came home for Christmas. We sat around our evergreen tree: us and the girl from down the street who he’d been writing to since he enlisted. After he left, on December twenty-sixth, clomping through the snow to the bus station, I turned back into my home. A frame on the wall caught my eye, I stared at that photograph of him in our car. The second my eyes saw it, my feet stopped- as if I’d seen a ghost. And my eyes were glued to the boy in the frame. I felt a tear bubble over and spill down my cheek. I closed my eyes. And I prayed. 

I was granted his safe return. Until I wasn’t. I and the girl down the road were expecting him home any day. His letters had promised me he’d be coming home. When I heard a clattering at the door, I practically flew from the kitchen to see him again. But when the door opened, I felt my heart drop, or leave my body completely. Because although the man’s uniform was right, he wasn’t my son. 

In that moment, as if time had frozen, I saw the old car, sitting alone in the driveway. And I remembered- everything. For a brief moment, my heart was whole in my chest and everything would be alright- but then the man turned grave eyes up to mine and handed me a telegram.