(Ava's POV)
He was just going to college. Not war. Not exile. Not the edge of the world.
But try telling that to my heart.
"Adrien!" I called, standing in the doorway as he loaded the last suitcase into the car. "You're forgetting the snacks I packed. And the extra charger. And your allergy meds. And—"
"Mom."
His voice was soft, half amused, half warning.
I blinked rapidly. No. No tears yet.
But my eyes betrayed me. The sting was already there.
He looked like a man. My son. Sixteen going on twenty, tall, strong, calm.
But all I could see was the chubby baby who used to sleep on my chest, the toddler who called broccoli "tiny trees," the boy who built me LEGO castles and said I was queen of them all.
And now he was leaving.
He noticed my silence, turned, and caught the tremble in my chin.
"Mom," he whispered. "Don't cry."
Too late.
I launched myself at him, arms wrapped tightly around his neck like I could freeze time with enough love.
He hugged me back, with one of those long, grounding, Adrien-type hugs that made everything feel okay.
Except it wasn't.
"I'm going to miss you like crazy," I whispered into his hoodie.
"I know."
"I'll call. Every day. Every hour if I have to."
"Mom."
"I mean it."
"I know you do."
He pulled back a little and smiled. That smile—my smile.
"I'm not disappearing. I'll be back on weekends. And you can visit. But please don't show up with Tupperware at 7 AM like some overly dramatic Netflix mom."
"No promises," I sniffled, laughing through my tears.
He glanced at the house, where Alex stood quietly watching from the porch.
Adrien leaned in again, quietly, so only I could hear.
"You did good, Mom. Raising me. Being strong. Surviving everything."
My heart split open.
And then he was gone.
The car pulled away.
And the silence crept in.
I walked back in, shut the door behind me, and leaned against it. The tears came freely now.
Alex stepped forward quietly, not saying anything, just reaching out and brushing a lock of hair from my face.
I turned and buried my face into his chest.
"He was my baby," I whispered.
"You gave him everything," he murmured. "And he became someone beautiful because of you."
And just like that—I wept. For the little boy who'd grown up. For the woman I'd become. For the life we were slowly rebuilding.
---
The house felt too big without Adrien.
Every room echoed. The silence was loud. I kept finding myself walking toward his door out of habit, only to stop, staring at the "DO NOT ENTER" sign that now felt like a farewell banner.
I curled up on the couch, hugging a hoodie he'd accidentally left behind, and I didn't even try to stop the tears anymore. It wasn't just Adrien I missed—it was the part of me that existed only as his mom. The constant movement, the chaos, the sound of his music, his laughter.
It felt like the end of something.
I didn't hear Alex walk in. Not until the couch dipped beside me and a warm, steady hand touched my shoulder.
"He's okay, Ava," he said gently. "You raised him to be okay."
"I know," I whispered. "But… that was my baby. That was my little boy. I blinked and now he's driving away with half my heart in his backpack."
Alex didn't respond with empty platitudes. He didn't rush me through the sadness. He just shifted closer and opened his arms. And without hesitation, I crawled into them like it was the most natural thing in the world.
There was a time when this same embrace was dangerous—when it came after fists and broken promises. But now… it was different. He was different. Steady. Quiet. Present.
"I don't know who I am without him here," I confessed into his shirt.
"You're still Ava," he said softly, rubbing small circles into my back. "You're still the strongest person I've ever known. You're just… allowed to miss him. Allowed to feel empty for a minute. It doesn't make you less strong."
I closed my eyes, listening to his heartbeat, warm and familiar.
"He was everything," I said.
"He still is. But you are, too."
I let out a soft, trembling laugh. "You're getting good at this. The comforting thing."
He smiled. "Therapy helps."
I looked up at him, really looked. This wasn't the boy who once shattered me. This wasn't the monster I'd escaped. This was a man. Wiser. Slower. Still carrying his guilt like armor. Still learning how to be gentle with the pieces he'd once broken.
"You're not him anymore," I said.
"No," he replied quietly. "But I remember who he was. Every day."
And then he pulled the blanket over us, and for a moment, the house didn't feel so empty anymore.