She knew he was old enough to get himself up each morning. She knew he set alarms on his phone. But she couldn’t help herself. She still wanted to be the one to wake him up. Pat his head. Pat his flung-out arm on top of the covers. Whisper, “Good morning.” Watch his eyelashes flutter and then his eyes open. She liked being the first one he saw upon waking.

He was eighteen now. Hard to believe. Wasn’t he just that squishy little baby squinting up at her as he lay nestled in her arms? He was leaving home next week, moving away to university. These were her last mornings with him.

At 6:30am she quietly opened his bedroom door. He was on his side, facing away from her. His phone was pushed up under his pillow. She patted his shoulder and gently called him by his family nickname, Nut. His real name was Sean but since he was a toddler it had been Walnut, Wally or Nut. There was no real reason for these nicknames. They just sort of happened and then they stuck. It took a moment of patting his back before Nut grunted.

“You awake?” she asked.

“Uh huh.”

“I’ll make your breakfast, ok?”

“’K.”

She tip toed out of the room, closing the door behind her. He always ate peanut butter toast and drank hot green tea in the mornings. Downstairs, she drew water for the electric kettle and pushed two pieces of bread into the toaster, reminding herself not to use the left side of the toaster because that side always popped back up before the toast was ready. She relished the little routine of fixing his breakfast. There were so many things she could no longer do for him. So many things he didn’t need from her anymore. And next week, this too would be gone. She had started counting lasts. Last time he would come in from his summer job and eat dinner at the family table. Last time she would wake him up. Last time she would make tea and toast.

It was strange because not too long ago she was counting firsts. First time he took a breath—she remembered his tiny body sliding out all limp and blue. Suddenly, he sucked in air. She’d witnessed it—that first breath. He’d turned pink all over. A proper, pink, crying baby. It was a miracle. Her husband had brought her flowers in the hospital. There was a card that said: “For my darling wife and my first-born son.” And then there had been the first smile. First tooth. First roll over. First crawl. First step. First word. All miracles, all of them.

But he had been their only son. Their only child.

And she had devoted herself to him. The love she had for him eclipsed everything else. Nothing in life compared to the sense of urgent purpose and deep meaning she found in tending to his every need. The changing of diapers, the washing of bottles and little clothes, the making of meals, the reading aloud of books. She found something deeply satisfying about every part of it. She didn’t care about the not-so-subtle disapproval from friends, neighbors, even other family members. You spoil that child. Don’t you want other things out of life? What will you do when he’s grown and gone? She had ignored all of it, let herself melt wholly and completely into motherhood. They didn’t understand and she didn’t care to explain it.

But now, here he was: eighteen. He was grown. He was moving out. What would she do with her long, empty days? She preferred not to think about it. Things would happen, her schedule would fill up. Of course it would. Perhaps she would get a small job. Perhaps she would volunteer. In her heart she knew nothing would measure up to the gift of caring for him.

Her son came down to the kitchen wild haired and heavy eyed. He slumped into a chair and gazed into his phone. She placed the toast and tea before him. She sat next to him and watched him eat. He was not a morning person. Waking up was a long, slogging process for him. She knew this. She didn’t expect him to talk. She just wanted to soak him in a bit. She smiled at his disheveled hair, his mismatched socks. As long as he didn’t catch her watching him she was safe to enjoy him. But if he looked up from his phone and saw her looking at him, he would shift uncomfortably and ask why she was being creepy. So she fiddled with her cup of coffee, pretended to be busy with her own phone. All the while glancing at him. All the while measuring the slightest twitch of his eyebrows, the tiniest grimace of his lips.

He glanced up from his phone.

“How late are you working today?” she asked before he could register that she’d been watching him.

“Dunno. Probably five.”

“Will you be with us for dinner or are you going to your girlfriend’s house tonight?”

“Probably going to her house.”

So, she didn’t need to make dinner. She nodded at him and took a sip of her coffee.

“Well, I hope you have a good day,” she said, getting up from the table to clear his plate.

He said nothing to this and she took his plate to the sink, rinsed it. Placed it in the dishwasher. He would take his tea to work with him. She lived on tiny gestures, little phrases. He never talked much but when he did, she treasured it.

A few weeks ago he’d paid her the highest compliment. She’d been sharing about her worries about dad. What would happen when they grew old? What would happen after he retired?

“Don’t worry about that, Mom,” he’d said. “You guys can come live with me. I won’t put you in a nursing home.”

She’d tucked that away in her heart like a secret. Nut wasn’t prone to sentimentality. He was practical and rational. A shade cynical. So his words held special meaning to her. Even if, when it came down to it, he did put her in a nursing home. At least he’d said it. There was something in that. A kind of thanks. A kind of gratitude for the years she’d devoted to his service.

And then, too, there were several more days of making him breakfast. She still had that. Perhaps it was enough.