We flew to San Francisco to visit William in his first place as an adult, the first place he’s lived that isn’t a dorm room.
So maybe it’s not that glamorous, the top floor of an ramshackle Victorian house in a scruffy neighborhood with lots of street life. Five boys in a place with only one bathroom, but it feels like heaven to him. And it seemed like a bit of heaven to me.
The motley collection of pots in the kitchen, the cobbled-together collection of Craig’s List furniture and, in some cases, no furniture at all (why are those mattresses propped up against the hallway wall?), the uneven stairs and the floor that needs paint.
“Wow,” we said, “this looks great.” Because everything about it said, “I’m doing well.” A job, good friends, maps of places to go on weekends, books to read, a barbecue on the back terrace, notes on the fridge about who owes whom for the electric bill, a mop in the corner that has actually been used a few times.
My mom always said she couldn’t fall asleep until she could picture where her children were so she could say a prayer for each of them. Now I can picture William in his new place, independent, self-sufficient (he insisted on taking us out for breakfast), confident, hard-working, even if his bed wasn’t made and the carpet needed vacuuming. He’ll figure some of that stuff out in time. The important thing is he’s doing great. It was worth traveling halfway across the country just to see that.
Now when I lie in bed I can say my prayers and see that tons of them have been answered. “At this stage of your life,” he said over the weekend, “you probably want know that your kids can handle things on their own.” What a sweet blessing that is.
