My Son

When my son was a little boy I used to imagine that somewhere there was a little girl who would one day be his wife. I’d wonder who she was. I hoped that whoever she was she’d understand his little quirks; like playing air guitar with his tongue wagging, or the need to roll up the sleeves on his shirts and trousers, and then there was his aversion to colorful food. Of course, at the time, he had just learned to tie his shoes.

Years later, when my son brought home this sweet, dark-haired beauty, I paid attention. I observed the two of them interact, she laughed at his jokes, enticed him with colorful and spicy food, and changed his wardrobe–surely this was meant to be. The love between them was plain to see. I knew this was it. I have finally met her.

So a few weeks ago they got married. A beautiful wedding, arranged entirely by the two of them with not a detail out of place. What happened to me was a complete surprise; I fell apart. I said to my husband, WTF, I never felt this way when our girls got married. He laughed and said, he felt like he was losing his girl when they married. It was astonishing and disheartening to know Freud was right. WTF

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