My younger son survived his freshman year, living in a cramped dorm room with two strangers. When summer arrived, he and his girlfriend came home, and the house buzzed with their presence. I had almost forgotten how quiet it gets when he’s gone.
Now, he’s moved into a spacious apartment with one of last year’s roommates—a three-bedroom with a huge screened patio. He took the two smaller rooms, filling them with his driving simulator, four bass guitars, an amp, and a futon. He needs the space.
We spent four whirlwind days shopping to furnish his new place, and I have to say, my kid has great taste. The apartment is styled better than you’d expect for two 19-year-old guys (or women for that matter).
And there’s the rub—it’s a 12-month lease. The place is so nice, I know he won’t want to leave. With all his belongings neatly arranged, all of his new furniture, and his crazy dual monitor gaming system, this apartment isn’t just a stopgap during the school year; it’s his new home.
This feels so final. I know it is. He won’t be moving back home now that he’s tasted independence and has a space filled with his things. The days of his apartment shutting down during school breaks, forcing him back to my house (like the dorms did), are over.
He’s really gone now. And I’m really alone. Yes, he and his brother will return for Christmas, but it’s no longer their home. They have their own places now. But I hope this house always feels like home to them, and they know they’ll always be welcome back with open arms.
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