“Mom, what’s for dinner?”
Yesterday my oldest son came home from college for the weekend. He came back to attend his younger brother’s lacrosse game and to spend time with us—hanging out, watching basketball, enjoying my cooking, and making us laugh. Naturally, on the drive home his first question was about food.
When his younger brother walked in the door after practice, his first question was also about dinner. I’ve learned that far more than a meal is wrapped up in that simple query, even if they don’t realize it yet.
It’s about coming home and knowing someone is there who loves you and takes care of you—the quiet reassurance that some things remain constant.
Those innocent words are familiar from years of children running through the house—heading to practice, playing with friends, catching a movie—until one day they rush out into Life On Their Own and we suddenly miss that casual question.
It’s as if the echo of the screen door slamming carries across years, leaving memories that help us move forward. Those memories guide us as we adjust to new routines: time for ourselves, perpetually tidy homes, a little more money in our wallets, and maybe the chance to make something exotic—or “eww, gross”—for dinner.
We learn to cherish both the memories and the new life, understanding that our children are finding their way in the world much as we hoped they would.
For some families, those memories end far too soon. In February 2006 a young man in my older son’s grade at a nearby high school was killed in a car crash. I knew his mother only slightly—she’d been the team mom when our boys played on the same middle school football team a few years earlier.
Over the years I’ve thought of her often as my son reached milestones her son would never experience: getting a driver’s license, college visits, dating, prom—all the rites of passage we assume will happen for our children but that were taken from her.
“Mom, what’s for dinner?”
I remember her now because a movie opening today is based on her son’s story and the family’s struggle after his death. I thought of her the day my son graduated high school in May 2008—the same day her son’s graduation would have been.
I thought of her again when I was driving home from moving my son into his dorm, knowing she would never have that particular experience. I think of her when a child gets into trouble, forgets to ask me to wash a uniform, or does something irritating. In those moments I try to remember that she would give anything for one more load of dirty socks, one more chance to be annoyed, or one more grade to fret over.
When I remember her, it helps me stay grateful for the blessings I have, even when they test my patience. I find reserves of patience I don’t normally tap into, responding with a little more love and a little less irritation, because life can change in an instant.
“Mom, what’s for dinner?”
Something special, Bud. Welcome home.
