We never talk about how close a connection parents build when we start to love the people our kids love.

In a few days, my youngest son will say goodbye to his closest friend. They’ve been tight since elementary school.

Now his friend’s family is moving a few miles away to attend a school with stronger college readiness scores.

It’s not far. But it 𝑖𝑠 far enough to change everything.

This kid has been part of our everyday life.

He walks to and from school with my son.

He’s been in our car, at our dinner table, in our stories.

When I picture my son, I picture this kid, too.

They’re a package deal.

And now that package is splitting up.

What I didn’t expect was how deeply 𝐼 would feel it. How sad 𝐼 would be.

Not just because my son is hurting, though 𝘁𝗵𝗮𝘁’𝘀 𝗲𝗻𝗼𝘂𝗴𝗵 𝗼𝗻 𝗶𝘁𝘀 𝗼𝘄𝗻.

But because this is bringing something up in 𝑚𝑒.

See, when I was younger, I lost friends too. Friends who meant everything.

But I wasn’t emotionally present back then.

I didn’t have anyone to help me grieve those losses.

I didn’t even know grief was allowed for something like that.

There were no talks.

No space to mourn.

Just silence.

Just moving on.

So now, as a grown man, sitting beside my son through his first real goodbye… it’s like I’m finally feeling all of 𝑚𝑦 old goodbyes too. All the ones I tucked away and never faced.

And it hurts.

Because what’s hitting me the hardest is the reminder that 𝑒𝑣𝑒𝑟𝑦𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑔 we experience will eventually fade. That’s one of the cruel gifts of getting older. You start to realize how fleeting joy really is.

When you’re young, you believe these 𝑚𝑜𝑚𝑒𝑛𝑡𝑠 𝑤𝑖𝑙𝑙 𝑙𝑎𝑠𝑡 𝑓𝑜𝑟𝑒𝑣𝑒𝑟.

But they don’t.

I’ve lost friendships. I’ve moved away. I’ve been moved on from.

And still, I keep letting myself believe that 𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑡𝑖𝑚𝑒 it might be different. That 𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑜𝑛𝑒 might last.

It’s getting harder not to put up emotional walls when I see the pattern. When you love something and it leaves, a part of you wants to say...

“Don’t do this again..."

"Don’t open up next time.”

But I don’t want to live that way.

I don’t want to be that dad. I don’t want my son to learn that kind of guardedness from me.

I want him to stay soft.

I want him to stay open.

Even if it hurts sometimes.

You want to know the weirdest part?

This all reminds me of watching Iron Man die in 𝐴𝑣𝑒𝑛𝑔𝑒𝑟𝑠: 𝐸𝑛𝑑𝑔𝑎𝑚𝑒.

I know that sounds random.

But that moment crushed me in a similar way.

I had spent a decade with those characters.

That chapter of life felt massive.

But then, it ended. Just like that...

𝗚𝗼𝗻𝗲!

And no matter how great it was, I had to let go.

That’s what this feels like.

A chapter closing. A reminder that even the most beautiful parts of life were never meant to last forever.

But here‘s the difference this time...

I 𝑎𝑚 here.

I’m present for it.

I’m not numbing it or burying it.

I’m walking through it, with my son and for myself.

I’m learning how to mourn in real time.

I’m holding space for both of us to feel it all.

Because I want him to remember what it was like to love someone deeply.

I want him to know that it’s okay to hurt when that changes.

I want him to see that sadness doesn’t have to make us hard.

And maybe, in doing that, I get to rewrite a small piece of my own past too.

𝑂𝑛𝑤𝑎𝑟𝑑,
𝐴𝑊