When my son hit 23 I couldn't take anymore (NOT.) One day after work I mustered the courage and told him to leave. Just. Like.That. He banged on the windows all night. I feel guilty still. That was 12 years ago.
And then there was the next stage. He was out of the house, but I couldn't let go. I couldn't accept I did not have a part in writing his story. An obligation to make it turn out okay; his life turn out okay.
And then about 3 years ago, something happened where I could not ignore the cost to myself. And I backed almost all of the way out.
Somebody I trust said to me a couple of months ago, the cost of creating a separate self, from him, was some of my love for him. What a gut punch that was.
I don't know what to think.
