A Careful Goodbye

I almost didn't answer when my son called that Tuesday afternoon. I was elbow-deep in sorting through old photo albums, and his name flashing on my phone felt oddly out of place—he usually texted during the day. But I wiped my hands on my jeans and picked up, and for twenty minutes we had the most ordinary conversation. He asked about my chicken recipe, the one with the lemon and rosemary. We talked about the weather turning colder. He mentioned his wife was doing well at work. There were pauses, longer than usual, and at one point he asked about my week twice, like he'd forgotten he'd already asked. I heard something in the background—a door closing, maybe voices—and when I asked, he said it was just the TV. Then, right before hanging up, he said 'I love you' in this careful, deliberate way that made me pause with my finger hovering over the phone. It felt heavier somehow, like he was making sure I heard every syllable. He said he needed to run out, and I told him to drive safe, and that was it. An hour later, my daughter-in-law called, her breathing uneven and panicked, asking what he had said, whether he'd mentioned leaving, and my stomach dropped before I even understood why. The police found his car after someone reported erratic driving. I sat on my couch, helpless, while she relayed their questions about his mental state, his recent behavior, and hours crawled by until the truth finally arrived: my son was safe, but not okay. That ordinary conversation, those careful words—he'd been saying goodbye, and I'd smiled through every second of it, heartbroken but relieved to finally understand why he had made sure to say 'I love you' so clearly—he had been saying it for the last time.

Image by RM AI