I couldn’t focus on anything, constantly worrying about him.
Then, one evening, there was a knock on the door. My heart leaped into my throat as I rushed to answer it.
It was Michael, looking tired and defeated, with a duffle bag slung over his shoulder.
“Mom, can we talk?” he asked, his voice sounding small.
Relief washed over me as I pulled him into a hug, “Of course, come in.”
We sat down in the living room, and Michael began to speak, his voice shaky, “I’m sorry, Mom. I was being stupid.” I squeezed his hand gently, “It’s okay, Michael.
I’m just glad you’re back.”
He looked down, avoiding my gaze, “I realize now that running away wasn’t the solution.
Dad didn’t even have a clue what I was talking about when I arrived.” I nodded, feeling a mix of sadness and relief, “I’m just glad you’re safe. But we really need to talk about what happened.”
And so, we talked. We talked about responsibility, about communication, about the challenges of adulthood.
It wasn’t an easy conversation, but it was a necessary one.
In the end, Michael understood that getting a car wasn’t just about fulfilling a desire for freedom; it came with responsibilities.
And I understood that communication was key, even when things got tough.
From that day on, we worked on rebuilding our relationship, stronger than before, knowing that challenges would come, but we would face them together.
