My son left college and moved miles away after meeting “his soulmate” in an online game. She convinced him to move so that they can get married. Now he says I have to visit him and meet her family.
To my shock, he even forced me to bring along the photo albums he used to laugh at as a teenager — the ones filled with birthday hats, messy faces from chocolate cakes, and pictures of him wearing my heels when he was five. I wasn’t angry. I was stunned.
This boy who used to roll his eyes when I told him to clean his room had now packed up his whole life for a girl he met through a headset. College was only a year in, and I had dreams — maybe not Ivy League, but a diploma at least. A steady job.
Maybe he’d move back to town someday. But now? He was in Nebraska, of all places.
The call had come on a rainy Tuesday. I remember it clearly because my old roof had just started leaking again and I was standing on a chair trying to tape a bowl to the ceiling. “Mom,” he said, voice excited.
“You have to come meet her. Her family’s great. They’re having a big Sunday lunch, kind of like a welcome thing.
You’ll love them. And bring the albums. She wants to see my baby pictures.”
I didn’t say no.
I never could with him. But I hung up that phone feeling like the world had taken a sharp left turn and forgotten to warn me. I booked a flight the next morning, packed my nicest blouse, and wrapped the albums in a scarf like they were fine china.
As the plane took off, I stared out the window and wondered if this girl — whatever her name was, I had forgotten in the moment — really knew who my son was. He could barely boil an egg, still thought putting his shirts in a drawer counted as laundry, and didn’t even own a real winter coat. I landed in a tiny airport with only two terminals.
My son, Ethan, was waiting by the entrance, smiling bigger than I’d seen him in years. He hugged me tight, like he used to when he scraped his knee or got scared during thunderstorms. Then I saw her.
She stood a few feet away, holding a handmade sign that said “WELCOME, MOM!” in colorful markers. Her name was Tessa. Short, wavy hair.
Big brown eyes. She looked nervous but sweet. We shook hands, and she smiled warmly.
“I’ve heard so much about you,” she said. I smiled back. “Hope all good things.”
She laughed and looped her arm through Ethan’s.
“Only good.”
The drive to her family’s house was quiet, though not uncomfortable. They lived on a farm — not cows and tractors type, more like vegetable patches, beehives, and a chicken coop. Her parents had inherited the land and made a modest life out of it.
Nothing fancy, but it was clean, charming, and surprisingly peaceful. Inside, the smell of baked bread and roasted chicken filled the air. Her mom, Lorraine, welcomed me with a hug and a glass of lemonade.
Her dad, Martin, was slower to warm up, but polite. There were two younger siblings running around, both teens, both curious and chatty. We sat down at a long table with mismatched chairs and linen napkins.
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