After our son grew up and began carving out a life of his own, he left home as young men often do. It was about 21 years, one month, 17 days, three hours and 10 minutes ago, but who’s counting?

He married a young woman whose passion for camping, hiking, dogs, night skies and the great outdoors matched his. After tying the knot, they fled to the wilderness— Chicago.

We missed his old truck with the loose muffler rumbling into the driveway late at night. The walls no longer shook because he was playing drums upstairs. Towels in the bathroom magically began staying on the towel bars. Strawberry Pop-Tarts on a pantry shelf let out soft sighs of loneliness.

Meanwhile, he and his bride were exploring the foreign terrain of tangled interstates and towering stands of concrete in the Windy City.

After their fifth baby was born, they moved back to our neck of the woods, settling just an afternoon drive away amid rolling hills blanketed in maples, red oaks, tulip trees and coyotes that serenade in the dark.

Our extended family numbers had swollen to 19 by then. Meaningful conversations at family gatherings consist of:

“Did someone put the mac ‘n cheese in the oven?”

“We need the piano bench and a 6-foot folding table from the garage!”

“Anybody find a black tennis shoe?”

One-on-one time with adult children or their spouses is a rarity. But once in a while, our son passes through the city on business and stays overnight at the house.

He texts an approximate arrival time. I run the vacuum, freshen towels in the bathroom and whip up a batch of his favorite cookies. We watch the clock and peer out the windows as his ETA draws near. We catch his headlights turning into the drive.

He walks into the house, and we try not to wag our tails like overly excited labradoodles. We sit at the kitchen table and talk about kids, work, family projects, everything and nothing.

I can still see the toddler who loved dinosaurs, the schoolboy who dismantled appliances and the high school kid who installed stereo speakers in the garage ceiling. I slide a plate of cookies his way. He acts surprised and takes two. Then a third.

We talk for a couple of hours, bouncing from topic to topic, then turn in so he can be ready for an early morning appointment. The last light is out and the house feels full.

We say goodbye in the driveway the next morning before the sun rises and watch the taillights disappear.

That was four days ago, one rumpled bed, a wet towel slung over the towel bar and a scattering of new gray hair around his temples, but who’s counting?

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