It’s a little after ten o’clock on Tuesday evening. My husband’s pulling a late shift at the hospital, and both my children are upstairs in their bedrooms—both are teenagers, so they don’t have to be in bed yet, but they have to be getting ready. School starts so early, and five A.M. comes around soon enough. It’s just me and the dog in the kitchen; I’m at the table, sipping a last cup of coffee for the day, and Maggie’s stretched out on the floor in front of the dishwasher, dozing to the soft sounds of the dinner plates being rinsed. The only light on is the one above the stove, but it’s bright enough I can easily see the puzzle book open in front of me.

In the silence around me, my hectic day at the office slips away.

Then I hear the tell-tale creak of the third step, and know one of the children has come downstairs. Bethany is a senior in high school, and even this late in the evening, she’s usually chatting or texting someone. If it’s her sneaking down to grab a late night snack or final cup of juice, I’d hear the beep beep beepher iPhone makes when she’s typing away on it. Since all I get is that one faint creak, I suspect the child who’s up and about is my son, Brian.

Sure enough, I sense someone behind me and, when I turn, it’s him. He’s a year younger than Beth but just as popular—top of his class, straight-A student, plays both football and basketball. He has thick, blond hair that won’t be tamed with a comb and large, brown eyes the girls just love. I know mothers who crow over how handsome their sons are but, believe me, I have reason to. He’s slim and athletic, with a quick smile and a shy way of ducking his head when he laughs that makes him just too damn cute for words. I fell in love with him the moment I first saw him, seventeen years ago, and I love him more every single day.

Don’t get me wrong—Bethany’s a beautiful girl, and I love her dearly, but she’s a pill sometimes. Ever since she hit the teens, she’s made it her job to keep me on my toes. Sometimes she accuses me of siding with him for every little thing, and it’s true. I do. But she has her daddy wrapped around her finger, and don’t think I don’t know it.

“Hey, sweetie,” I say as Brian shuffles into the chair beside mine. “Shouldn’t you be in bed by now?”

Brian gives me a sad smile. I want to ask him what’s wrong, but I bite my tongue because I know he’ll tell me. Of course he will—that’s why he’s here, isn’t it?

“I can’t sleep.” His hand rests on the table near my arm, so I reach over and cover it with my own. He doesn’t look at me when he says, “I…I really need to tell you something.”

My heart quickens. “What is it?”

He glances up at me, then looks away again, his gaze on our hands on the table. “Promise you won’t be mad,” he says in a small voice.

Call it mother’s intuition, but I know whatever he’s about to say will change things between us forever. Or, at least, that’s what hethinks. As solemnly as I can, I assure him, “Honey, nothing you could ever say or do would make me mad enough to stop loving you.”

He looks up again, a boy on the cusp of manhood, but the raw emotion I see in his features recalls the child he used to be. “You’re just saying that.”

I squeeze his hand fiercely in mine. “Nothing. I swear.”

A long moment passes while he thinks this over. His hand in mine is damp and clammy, and I fight the urge to rub some warmth into it. This could be about anything, really. The upcoming Junior/Senior prom—he’s going with his best friend Jenny, but he still needs to rent a tux and buy flowers…if she ever settles on a color for her dress. Or the standardized tests he’ll take in a week, which will determine his schedule next senior year. Or the college catalogs that have begun showing up in the mail, each more enticing than the last. Or maybe he’s just worried about finding a summer job in another month so he can pay for football camp at the end of August.

But a very small part of me thinks this isn’t about any of those. That part thinks I already know what he wants to tell me. I’ve been waiting for this moment since Brian was six years old and playing outside with his Big Wheel. That day stands out in my memory, highlighted by the sunlight winking off his blond curls in such a way it made my breath catch in my throat. I want to rush him through this, tell him I know, tell him I still love him anyway—perhaps more so now that he’s found the courage to tell me what I’ve suspected all these years…

But I keep quiet. This is his moment. He has to tell me the way he wants to. If I’m right—and how can I notbe right? I’m his mother—then he’s worked this over in his head until he’s absolutely sure of the script, and all I can do is wait for my cue. I have to play my part.