Every time I visit my son, I tell myself it will be easier to say goodbye. And every time, it isn’t.

The night before I leave, I start to notice the little things more sharply—the way he laughs at his favorite show, the way his hair sticks up in the morning, the small rituals we slip into so easily. I soak it all in, knowing that soon these simple, everyday moments will once again become memories I carry instead of realities I live.

When it’s time to go, my heart feels heavy even as my hands try to stay steady. I hug him a little longer than I probably should, trying to memorize the feel of his arms around me. I smile, because I want him to see my strength, but inside I’m already missing him.

The flight away always feels the longest. The seat next to me is empty again, but my thoughts are full—of his smile, his future, the life he’s building without me right there to witness it all. Pride and heartbreak sit side by side.

But in the quiet, I remind myself: leaving doesn’t mean letting go. Our bond stretches across miles. We talk, we text, we plan the next visit. Love finds its way through the distance, growing with every call, every message, every memory we’ve made.

It never gets easy, but it does remind me how deep this love runs. And when I think of the next time I’ll see him, there’s a light at the end of the goodbye.