Happy Mother's Day!

James sat in his studio, looking out over the large square garden of his suburban home.

It felt too quiet. It was Saturday yet Kane wasn’t home to help him out in his workshop as he usually did. Cate and Dave had called that morning to ask if Kane wanted to come with them and their kids to the Cairns lagoon for the day. And without hesitation his shy, quiet son had actually smiled and said, ‘Can I?’

He stared at his mobile phone, which sat silent and still on his workbench.

Dust fluttered slowly through a ray of sunlight.

Siena ought to have finished with Max ages ago. In the last hour he had see-sawed through moments in which, despite her insistence that she didn’t want to stay for him, he was hopeful she had told her boss to shove the Rome job, and others where he was just as sure she had done as she had always intended and taken the job and run.

Either way, after she had let him leave without saying a word the night before, he was all but certain he was not on the list of those she would be calling with the news.

But, even after the way they had left things, he needed to know.

He loved her. Having lived a night with the thought that he might never see her again, he knew that he loved her more now than ever. His love for her filled him up, brought him pleasure and pain, and he wouldn’t have traded either for the world. And because he loved her he wanted her to be happy. Sure, he would prefer her to be happy with him, but if she had to leave.

He slammed a fist against his workbench. Damn it! If only he’d said things differently the night before. Told her more of his feelings. Kissed her longer. Refused to let her go.

Never before had he felt that something so important was so far out of his control. His whole life had been about control—controlling his feelings, his actions, his wife, his son’s temperament. But this, the most important moment in his life to date, was not his to decide.

Feeling uninspired to work, as if his heavy limbs couldn’t be trusted to construct even the most basic design, he instead opened his blog.

To say goodbye? To post a final entry? It felt like the right time to say enough was enough.

Even though he had learnt a hell of a lot more than he bargained for in taking on Siena Capuletti and her roller coaster ride of a change of scene, he had to be thankful that she had helped him complete that important stage of his life.

From now on he knew he had friends who would happily talk through his concerns. Matt. Mandy. Dave and Cate. His blog had served its purpose but it no longer had a place in his life.

His fingers paused over the keyboard as he searched for a way to say goodbye. But, before he typed a word, he noticed that some time that morning someone had left a comment against his most recent post.

He’d never had a comment before. That was probably one of the main reasons why he had continued with it for so long, because he’d thought nobody had been paying it any attention.

His hand hovered over the mouse, but curiosity won in the end and he clicked on the comment box. And then his throat closed over completely as he read the words on the page.

Saturday, 8:12am

Two days ago I met a boy.

I hadn’t been actively looking to meet one, which is usually when these things happen—in the moment when you are least prepared for them.

For unprepared for him I was.

Until I met this boy I thought I was living the high life. I’ve visited the Eiffel Tower fifty times. Fifty! I’ve taken classes to learn how to weld, how to dropkick a guy twice my size and how to trim a bonsai tree. Why? Because I was independent, self-sufficient and stubbornly determined to remain that way. I could take care of myself. I needed nobody.

But this boy showed me that my independence had come at a price. Independence meant isolation. Isolation had turned to loneliness. And he made me ask myself if I was really happy to drift about the ocean of life alone forever more.

And the answer?

No. I’m not. Because, since I have known this boy, I have discovered that I was never an island. I was merely a lonely soul adrift but now I have found where my home really is.

I only hope that I have not left it too late to tell him how much this has meant to me.

I understand why he might see me as too much hard work, because believe it, I am, and I understand that after last night he might not believe that I was only trying to do what was best for him, and for the son he loves so much, but I’m telling him how I feel all the same.

If he can ever forgive me for being slow on the uptake, if he is willing to take my scratched and dented heart, if he is able to see his way past my stubbornness, then he, this boy, this man, this man that l love more than anything in the world, more than my independence, more even than Rome and all it represents, he can have me.

Because, now that I know that I want to come home, I realise too that it would never be home unless he was there with me.

S