When You Turn Eighteen

When he was 13, I went to see him.
He looked at me with eyes full of hope and said,
“Mom… when I turn 18, I want to live with you. For a long, long time.”

His voice was calm, but firm.
Like he had carried that wish quietly for years.
Even though he understood,
even though he didn’t cry—
I knew the longing was still there.
I could feel it.
The ache of all the days we didn’t get to share.

He wasn’t asking for much.
Just time.
Time to be near.
Time to belong again.
Time to call “now” ours, not just “once.”

And now,
as that day slowly comes closer,
I hold onto that promise too.
Just like he did.
Because love waits.
Even if it hurts.