"Alone in the Quiet"

Lonely.

That’s the word that keeps echoing through me today - quiet, hollow, heavy.

Reese has gone to North Carolina. And though I knew this day was coming, nothing prepared me for the goodbye. It was one of the hardest I’ve ever had to say.

I came home, crawled into bed, and cried myself to sleep. Not the kind of cry you can brush off with a deep breath and a splash of cold water - but the kind that settles into your chest like a storm and refuses to leave quietly.

Typically, I'd find comfort in Jelane - his steady presence, his arms that somehow make everything hurt a little less. But he’s in Yorktown with the softball girls, doing what he loves, and doing what I love him for. And while I’m proud of him, I’m also painfully aware: I am here. Alone. In this house. In this sadness. In this moment.

The silence is loud.

There’s a particular kind of grief in letting go of your last child. The final thread of daily motherhood now gently untied. My routine, my purpose, my hallway full of noise - all of it, quieter now. I don’t know who fully prepares for this chapter, but if there’s a manual, I must’ve skipped that page.

And maybe this is the test. To sit with the ache without trying to run from it. To feel the grief and still believe I’ll come out the other side. To be alone - and still okay.

Today, I’m not looking for silver linings. I’m not wrapping this up with a bow of “it gets better.” I’m just here. Writing this with red eyes and an ache I didn’t invite but also can’t ignore.

And maybe, for now, that’s enough.