Suddenly, I am desperate for him to say yes. I want to sit across the kitchen table with him and sip coffee and watch him cut his stack of pancakes into four equal portions, an X made with fork and knife. I want to chide him gently when he pours too much syrup, when he licks his fingers instead of using a napkin. I want to laugh over dumb knock-knock jokes we both already know the answers to but will still and always pretend are brand new.

“Not really hungry,” he says. “I’ll get something later.”

It’s not okay to let your son see how his rejection makes you crestfallen. A good mother does not allow her emotions to depend on the whims of a teenage boy who has grown too big to sit on her lap. She does not rely on him for her emotional support. I know I’m far from the best mother, but I try my best to be a good one.

I keep my response light. “No problem. Pizza for dinner later? Dad won’t be home until Thursday.”

Pizza grabs his attention better than the pancakes. Eli nods and sidles past me, heading for the bathroom at the end of the hall. He closes the door behind him with a firm click of the lock. I am shut out.

I make pancakes anyway.

Butter, syrup, fresh strawberries, and some whipped cream. Mindful of the reunion, I’d stepped up my regular diet and exercise routine over the past few months. Today, I can indulge.

As is typical when I let myself go, I gorge. The entire stack of pancakes disappears, washed down with strong coffee sweetened with sugar and lightened with cream. I sit back from the table, hands on my stomach, and close my eyes. I’m stuffed. I chastise myself. I feel worse about this gluttony than I did about last night’s truncated seduction.

“Mom? You okay?”

I open my eyes and force a smile. “Ate too much.”

Eli scans the kitchen, eyes going to the stove, then the empty platter on the table. “I changed my mind. But if you ate them all—”

“I’ll make some more.” I get up, stomach protesting the too-swift motion. “There’s coffee, if you want some.”

I’m not sure when he started drinking it. Probably when he started staying up until all hours playing his online games and reading forums. I began my own addiction to indulgence in high school, spending hours at the local diner, drinking coffee by the pot while my friends and I thought we were figuring out the secrets of the universe.

“I was thinking that later we might go for a hike out at Yellow Springs, if you wanted.” I grip my coffee mug in both hands, practicing nonchalance.

Long gone are the days when Eli ran to me, clung to me, or even looked to me for solace. Now I’m the one who wants to cling. I know this is what happens. I understand about kids growing up and away from their parents. I did it with my own, who let me go, even when I was making mistakes they could have stopped me from. I don’t begrudge my son his widening distance from me, his dad, this house, but I do envy it. He will grow up and go away. I … will not.