When I finally packed a bag, changed the Wi-Fi password, and left, it wasn’t about drama—it was about exhaustion. My son had moved back “for a few weeks” after his breakup, but four months later he was still sleeping late, dodging chores, and brushing off my requests. Miriam let me crash at her place. I thought leaving might shake him. His only reply to my absence was a single “Ok.”
When I returned, the house smelled of burnt food and neglect. He looked at me blankly when I asked for an apology. Something in me hardened. “You have one week to figure out your next step,” I said. He stomped off, but small shifts followed: an early interview, a note on the fridge, a cautious smile. Then I found the shoebox—letters to his ex, to himself, and to “the version of me I hope to be someday.” They revealed a boy adrift, aching, and trying to write himself steady.
That night, over pasta, I told him I’d found them. He admitted he hadn’t wanted me to “fix” him, only to figure himself out. For the first time, we were honest: I couldn’t carry him anymore, and he knew it. Days later, he got a job offer at a tech store. Weeks later, he started looking at apartments.
We loaded boxes into a borrowed truck. He hugged me longer than usual and thanked me “for the kick in the butt—and everything else.” His new place was small but proud, one letter framed by the door: “To the version of me I hope to be someday—you’re doing okay.” Parenting doesn’t end; it shifts. Sometimes love means soft landings, sometimes it means walking out. Letting go, just enough, was the hardest—and kindest—thing I could do.