I sit quietly and sip tea each morning on my patio outside. Sometimes the cat joins me and we chat about the pretty day and if she enjoyed her breakfast. She’s been my constant companion for nearly six years now. Always dainty and compassionate, she has been more of a comfort to me at times than I think I’ve been to her. It’s here in this setting I think about everything. I muse on my past, my present, what the future holds and sometimes I drift away to a very special place only for me and join him. He stands tall and straight like his father and always has a half smile as he struggles to extend me his forced and unenthusiastic “hello.” In this dream of a family utopia, we talk and share a few laughs. We work out our differences and are capable of spending a moment taking in each other’s presence and energy without blame and anger. Before he was born I dreamt of him. I saw him as a toddler with blonde hair giggling and running towards me. He took up the guitar when he was thirteen. I had a large tax refund and told him to pick out the electric guitar and amp he’d been wanting for a while. I saw this hobby as a good way for him to channel his angst. It was a good investment because he now has a Master’s Degree in Music. I suppose I over indulged him so that he’d feel like at least one parent cared about his birthday and that he had new clothes. At some point he began hanging with kids who had much more than we did. He was ashamed that we didn’t have as much and held it against me. Long story short. Single mom with many jobs and no help was our cliche, but it’s our story and it’s a good one. Interference from his father mostly left a trail of collateral damage and questions we sifted through as if digging in garbage for years. Having control over our lives was his crack. Breaking free took many years and a lot of struggling. I thought leaving was ultimately worth the lost opportunities and isolation we felt together so often. In those young years I was like a machine just chugging along day after day in a desperate race to survive and make up for all my child was missing without his father in his life. If I had stayed… You aren’t supposed to go back and bemoan the past. No. My boy would have had no chance or might have wound up drug addicted and or dead. His father left us no option. I had to dig down deep and be brave in a way that may have crippled others, but I gave it my best and we’re both still hanging in there. But we’re not really connected like we once were. Taking the time to make an effort and call, text and visit has slowly but surely started slacking off. We aren’t speaking much these days and when we do it’s not warm. You can teach a child what respect looks like and how it should be applied to whomever deserves it. However, sometimes the child that you spent so much of your life loving and nurturing turns on you. Maybe I was distant and maybe I don’t really listen to what he’s telling me. Maybe I was too stressed when he was younger and maybe visitation beginning at ten months old with a drug addled father was traumatic on a young psyche. My son resents me for things he cannot even articulate. His father is long gone. He met with the typical end one experiences as an addict. So, there’s no one else to blame but me. Praying for him comforts me and I hope the positive energy I send his way makes a difference in his day to day life. To say we’re happy both being more and more on our own is wishful thinking. Communication has broken down and what I get now is a slew of insults and the constant reminding me of every transgression I’ve made. He’s also capable of kicking me when I was down. A few months ago I had some personal health issues and he wanted me to move where he was and I explained that I couldn’t just up and move so far away when I have his grandmother to consider. She’s having her own health problems and I’m her only child. He isn’t receiving my acquiesce as readily as he had grown accustomed to when we lived as a family from his birth to age twenty two. Tough love is what they call it. I applied some and he hasn’t forgiven me yet. I’m having to do the unthinkable and tell myself that there probably won’t be a Hallmark moment where he says “I’m sorry mom. Let’s just start over and be friends.” He’s much too proud and whatever the issue is it’s always my fault. He’s not much like me and that stings because I gave him my best years. Relationships come and go. It’s true. I just didn’t realize it could apply to a mother and her child until now. I don’t believe I have felt this much pain in a good while. Seems fitting with the year we’ve had. When I think of him lately I see him in my family utopia fantasy and he’s laughing and secure with himself. He trusts me and values the love I’ve given him. To be happy is what we all want for our children. I still have hope.