So the boy's gone back to his Ivy League friends, and we both breathe a sigh of relief. And in my ruminations, I realize that I really do need to let him go, whether he really wants me to or not.
He doesn't like me, which makes him so uncomfortable that he can't talk to me. I hear him with the four friends he foisted on my for an overnight, and he is happy and laughing, and, yes, even talking.
And into the wee hours he is on Skype with his girlfriend, and he is hardly letting her get a word in.
But for me, conversation is like pulling teeth. And it hurts so much more.
But I am hoping that, like his sister, he just needs to be away from me, and really, truly believe that he is free of me. And then, when he grows up a bit, he'll stop having the need of the anger he has for me. And then maybe he'll be able to relax and even talk to me.
Until then, thank you Terry Pratchett, I will just have to live sans avec.
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