I'm the first one to mock helicopter mothers who can't let go, but the last one to look away, as I watch my son's tail lights recede in the frosted January twilight.
The lump in my throat has restricted my breathing to the point of a high pitched, flemmy garble when I try to speak. It's embarrassing, and I'm not even hormonal.
And what makes it worse is that I'm not at Disneyland.
Or in Hawaii.
Or driving around in a light blue convertible Jag wearing sunglasses, red lipstick and a scarf tied 'round my brilliant platinum hair.
Yes, THAT is what makes it worse.
And I blame you.
Is it any wonder I miss him so much?