trying not to cry

A. came over today after work to retrieve the rest of his stuff, mostly old photos, his baseball card collection, old journals and his snow boots. I heated up some left over baked ziti for him because I can’t help but want to feed him, to make sure he’s ok and taken care of. I guess I have to get used to not feeling responsible for that kind of stuff. I used to spend so much time worrying about whether he’d eaten enough, or if he’d be hungry when he came home (obviously I have a terrible case of Jewish mother syndrome), or thinking about the delicious and nutritious meals I could cook for him. And he loved it. He loved my food and the thought that went into it and the care I took. That’s something I’m going to miss a lot. I’m sure he will too.