Setting: October 2025 — A small, quiet drive to the store before our run
Tonight, I let Caleb sit in the front seat. He’s ten, almost eleven, and needed to charge his phone. The only outlet is up front, and usually, I just plug it in for him. But this time, I told him he could sit there himself.
He hesitated. “I’m not sure I’m old enough yet,” he said, voice small but serious. He’s always been like that, a rule follower to his core. So I told him it was fine, that it was just a short ride.
And then there he was, beside me. Not behind me. Not hidden by the hum of the backseat. Just there, close enough to talk without raising our voices. The car felt quieter somehow, heavier in a way I couldn’t explain.
It hit me, the strangeness of it. The space he used to take up, car seats and chaos and cries in the night, has turned into this careful boy who checks the rules twice. Next year, he’ll be in middle school.
Somehow, the distance between those sleepless nights and this short drive vanished without me noticing. One minute, I was rocking him back to sleep, and the next, he was watching the road beside me, calm, growing, already halfway there.
And for the rest of the drive, I couldn’t stop glancing over, trying to memorize the shape of this in-between.
Because somewhere between the back seat and the front, I realized he wasn't sitting in childhood anymore — he was growing up right beside me.
This post is part of my One-Minute Memoir series — short reflections on small moments that still manage to say something big.
No comments