Other than the sound from the television as I flipped through the channels, the house was quiet. Depressingly quiet. My 15-year-old twins were sequestered in their usual spots, Breckan in his bedroom and Brennan in the game room. And I was in my usual spot, where I'd been spending so many evenings alone lately-on the living room sofa, Girl Scout cookies in one hand, the remote in the other.
From the moment the boys were born, I'd thrown myself into being the best mom I could be. I'd been a single parent since their father and I divorced when they were six. Raising my boys to be productive, independent young men filled my life with purpose. And joy. Brennan and Breckan were my favorite people to spend time with, and they felt the same about me. Or they used to anyway.
Now we seemed to live in separate worlds. I couldn't help but feel as if I'd somehow messed up as a mother, that we should be interacting more. In a few short years, they'd be off to college. Out of the nest. Then they'd need nothing from me. Honestly, it felt that way already.
Five hours earlier, I'd picked up the boys from school like always, after finishing my day as a middle-school English teacher. "Hey, babies!" I said. "How was everyone's day?"
"Fine," Breckan said from the passenger seat.
"Fine," Brennan echoed from the back seat.
"Anything cool happen?" I asked.
"No," Breckan answered. Was that a sigh?
"It was just a normal day," Brennan said, at least using a full sentence.
"I'm so happy to see you!" I said, patting Breckan on the leg. "That's the rule. If you sit in the front, you have to put up with Mom loving on you."
"Uh-huh," he said, with his earbuds in. Had he even heard me?
A few blocks down the road, I broke the silence with "How do tacos sound for dinner?"
No answer. I looked in the rearview mirror. Brennan had dozed off.
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