I was folding his laundry tonight, just the jerseys mostly, the ones from high school that still smell a little like dirt and sweat even after a good wash. Football, basketball, baseball. All faded in different spots, some with rips I never got around to mending. He’s gone in a month. College. His room will be quiet. Empty. And it hit me, right there by the dryer, a real punch to the gut. I just started tearing up, stupid really. For years, I wanted him to go, to make something of himself, to get out of this town. And now it’s here, and I feel like I’m losing a limb. I raised him alone. Two jobs, sometimes three, just to keep food on the table and a roof over our heads. There wasn’t a lot of extra money for anything fancy, no big vacations, no designer clothes. He mostly understood. He knew. I always told myself I was doing it for him, all of it. So he wouldn’t have to struggle like I did. So he could have a better life. But looking at those crumpled jerseys, thinking about him not being here, I realized how much I missed. How much *we* missed. All those nights I was too tired, too stressed, too worried about the next bill. I saw the finish line, always. Just get him through. Get him ready. And now he’s ready. He’s going. And I’m just standing here with a pile of dirty laundry and a silent house coming. All those little things I put off, all the times I said "maybe later" because I had to work or had to clean or had to worry. There's no later now. He’s a man. He’s got his own life to live. And I’m just… here. With these jerseys, and this empty feeling in my chest that feels a lot like I messed up. Like I traded all the small moments for a future that’s not really mine anymore.