August 28, 2000

Ever since Tom was born, I've lived in fear of a single, terrible moment -- the day I leave for work and he notices.

Long ago, a friend told me that his son, as he gathered up his things to leave, would cry and cry, cry like the world was coming to an end.  "Don't go, Daddy," he would wail.  "Please don't go!"  But my friend would pull himself away and walk to the car and quietly die, turning his back on his begging, pleading boy.  It broke his heart, he said, each and every day.

How could I take that?  How could I leave?  How could I walk away from my son, tears cascading down his cheeks, wanting nothing but to be with his father?  I've been dreading, fearing, loathing the day, knowing that it would come.

And a few weeks ago, it finally arrived.  As 8:30 approached, I began to gather my things.  Tom, playing in the next room, approached and looked up at me with his enormous blue eyes.  He reached out and took hold of my finger and smiled a wonderful smile, a small, gentle smile just for me.

Then he marched me to the front door, pushed me out and closed it behind me.  I heard him laugh as he ran back to his toys.

 



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