Evan

The Beginning

He's beautiful.

I gaze down at the small, pudgy figure nestled in my arms, his bare skin warm and slightly wet.

Never had I ever held a baby before, much less my own. I can't help but gawk in awe at him, trying to wrap my brain around the fact that he, this ridiculously adorable creature, is my own creation.

His eyes are the most fascinating things I have ever gazed upon in my life. They're the same color as his father's — the vast, intriguing shade of the Pacific Ocean. His eyelashes are abnormally long; they curl back to brush the edge of his eyelids.

Unlike most babies, he hadn't cried much when first being exposed to the cool atmosphere of the hospital. The very first sound that had been omitted out of his mouth had been a gentle little gurgle. A squeal that had caused my heart to nearly surge out of my chest from being so full.

Nurses hover around me, cooing down at my newborn child. Yet I hardly notice their presence.

The baby — no, my baby — wraps his left palm slowly around my thumb, his eyes drooping before he falls into a deep, deep sleep.

I sit there on the hospital bed, savoring the feel of his damp skin against mine. I can feel his heart thumping against my breasts; a steady thump, thump that helps steady me as I watch him.

I shift my finger onto his face, caressing his soft face. His skin feels softer than the most expensive of silk cloths.

He's my treasure.

I smile, a small pang of drowsiness creeping into my eyes. I kiss my baby on the forehead. It's getting late. Yet I know that tonight, I'm going to sleep well, knowing that my baby boy has finally arrived.

"Welcome to the world, Evan."

The Middle

"Evan!"

My call is followed by nothing but the boyish laughter streaming down from upstairs.

I try not to cringe at the mud tracks that form from the kitchen door all the way up the wooden staircase. I'll clean that up later. Right now, there's a much more important task at hand — scolding Evan.

"Evan!" I try again, huffing with exasperation when I'm, again, left without a response. Was I this rebellious when I was fifteen?

Giving up, I pull off my apron and tie it against one of the dining room chairs. I stomp up the stairs, being sure to avoid the muddy footprints dirtying the once polished steps.

I turn a sharp corner and head to the closed bedroom door at the end of the hall — a ridiculous sign hanging on its doorknob reading DO NOT DISTURB. Ha. As if my own son could keep me away with a simple piece of paper with a few scribbled letters.

I swing open the door, barging into Evan's cluttered bedroom. When I say cluttered, I mean cluttered. Stacks of magazines line the floor to my right, and underwear is everywhere — on the carpet, on the unmade bed, sticking out of drawers, and even under Evan's desk. Since Evan dislikes keeping the windows open, the small space smells like a dump.

The boy himself jumps in surprise at my sudden appearance, jolting upwards in his swivel chair. His flashing computer screen projects a single avatar that's running around, a gun in hand.

"What the heck? Why didn't you knock?" Evan growls, crossing his arms over his chest. He's wearing a stained white undershirt and his soccer shorts. Was he really that lazy that he at least couldn't change into something . . . nicer?

"Evan, how many times have I told you to clean your room?" I demand, ignoring his question. I shake my head furiously. "No, not the right time to ask that. But we'll talk about that later. I told you to go shower right after practice! And you wore your soccer cleats into the house. Did you even notice the mud you got everywhere?"

I hate scolding my son — it's the same as yelling at a lost puppy. I feel a pang of regret when I see a flash of anger in Evan's eyes, yet I force myself to carry on.

"At least get the audacity to change. And is playing video games all you ever want to do? Don't you even think of telling your momma hello? I was waiting for you for hours, yet you wouldn't even say one sentence to me other than—"

My son's sudden retort cuts me off, his low voice filled with contempt. "Whatever, Ma. I'll clean up everything later. Can't you just leave me alone for just an hour? Is that so hard? God!"

He turns back around, flipping on his gaming headphones and speaking into the mic. "Yeah, sorry 'bout that. My mom came in to yell at me. Jeez, it's so annoying."

The fact that I'm still there — the fact that he knows I'm still there — hurts more than anything else. He's deliberately saying those words, to shoo me away.

Fine. He wins.

"Come down for dinner when you're hungry," I snap, and head back out, slamming the door behind me. Evan barely so much as glances in my direction.

As soon as I'm downstairs, I sink onto the living room couch, trying my best to hold back the tears that are threatening to spill. Nothing hurts more than rejection from your own child — the being that you helped create and raise to who he his today.

Why are teenagers so tough to handle?

* * *

Somebody is crying.

As I stir my cup of tea while waiting for my wet hair to dry, I can hear a faint, barely audible noise coming from somewhere upstairs. It is like a cat's whimper — soft and gentle, yet also heartbreaking.

Frowning, I quietly pad up the stairs. Evan had cleaned the mud tracks without speaking a single word to me. I decided not to ask him about it; he did his job, I suppose.

My husband's already asleep, and he's not a crier. So that means . . .

I head down the hallway and place my ear slowly against Evan's door.

My eyes widen.

Evan is crying.

I can hear his sobs from the other side of the thin wood that separates us. He's obviously trying to muffle them. His low, uneven bawls cause my own heart to feel as if it's breaking. Why is he crying?

I take in a deep breath. I'm his mother. It's my duty to comfort him.

Yet . . . a part of me knows that he won't accept my sympathy. He's a teenager, after all.

No, that's not the right mindset, I say to myself. I'm his parent. I'm going to be there for him, whether he likes it or not.

Slowly, I creak open the door, and slip through the opening.

"Evan, why are you crying?" I murmur. He's lying in bed, his blankets draped around his head as if he's trying to hide himself from the outside world. "What's wrong, baby?"

I sit down beside him, gently caressing his cheek just as I had fifteen years ago. He's so grown up . . . "Please tell your momma. What's upsetting you?"

Evan's still for a moment, nothing but the sound of his sobs filling the darkened room.

Then he speaks.

"Just. Well. School's tough on me. I'm sorry I was rude earlier. It's just . . . the soccer match wasn't that great and . . . my grades came out today. They're not so amazing . . ." He burrows deeper into the sheets, like he's embarrassed to face me.

I remember how my parents reacted whenever I had received a bad grade. They had scolded me and I had felt hurt for days.

I let out a light chuckle, and begin ruffling Evan's hair. "It's alright, baby boy," I murmur. "Grades aren't what we're made of, right?"

"Yeah, but—"

"No 'but's," I say sternly. "All you need to know — and understand — is that I'm going to love you no matter what. Even if you fail school and end up becoming some stripper, I'm still going to be your momma. And that's that."

"Thanks, Ma. I feel like I don't say this too often, so . . . I love you. Yeah, it's kinda awkward saying it, but I mean it, really."

I smile. I lean down to kiss his forehead.

"I love you, too, Evan."

The End (or the New Beginning)

"Don't cry," Evan says warmly, though I can clearly see the tears beginning to roll down his cheeks as he wraps me in a tight embrace. "Don't cry," he says again.

"I'm not," I manage to choke out between sobs. "I'm okay."

"I'll call you everyday," Evan assures me, and I shake my head sadly.

"Baby boy, you know that's not possible. You have your own family to look after." I gaze fondly at the beautiful young woman standing a few feet away from him, who smiles up at me. She's gorgeous. Her heart's pure, too. I know she'll take care of Evan.

Evan leans back, gulping. "But . . . I'm going to miss you so much!"

This time it's my time to assure him: "And that's why you'll visit me during the holidays. Right?"

My son nods, wiping his tears. "I love you, Ma. I love you. I love you times one million."

I laugh. "I love you too, times infinity. Now go, your plane's waiting."

I knew that this moment would someday come. The day I'd finally have to watch Evan grow up, and leave the household. Though he'll always be my son, we won't be as connected. This is the moment we separate.

I watch as he and his wife head down the airport slowly, both glancing back towards my husband and I as we watch them go. I wave encouragingly at them, swallowing back my own misery. "I love you, Evan," I whisper, just so that I can hear it.

There's a joy of raising your child and seeing them head off to start their own life. Yet . . . there's also that bittersweet pain that comes along with it, too.

I suppose the moral of the story is that no matter how much you treasure something — or someone — you'll always have to learn to let go.

I'll see you soon, Evan. Until then, good luck on your new life. You'll forever be my baby boy.

Love, Momma.