Jackson is my heart and soul, and I have no doubt he would be regardless of who he grew to be, but I’m blessed with a son who actuallylikesschool.
He enjoys learning and, as far as his teachers report, he’s a top-notch student—smart, well-behaved, and what I care most about,kind.
“I’m ready,” he says breathlessly as he comes skidding to a stop in the kitchen doorway.
“Perfect timing,” I say, handing him the egg-and-cheese breakfast burrito I just finished wrapping in some tinfoil.
He takes it without argument and peels it open as he follows me to the front door, Spider-Man backpack well secured over both shoulders.
“You have all your homework?” I confirm as I turn to lock up our modest inner-city townhome.
It has a sweet yellow door and white shutters to contrast the dark-gray paint—a major part of the appeal that drew me to it in the first place.
The gate and white picket fence that surround our own tiny little yard and garden don’t hurt, either.
They make it easier for me to let Jackson play outside without worrying he might get too close to the street.
“Yep,” Jackson confirms around a bite of eggs.
I don’t know why I bother asking anymore.
My little boy is more organized than I am when it comes to his schoolwork.
His hair, on the other hand, is a tangled mess of dark locks, and I comb my fingers through it, trying to bring it into a semblance of order as we start the three-block walk to his elementary school.
“Now, you’re sure you don’t want me to come pick you up from school today?” I ask for probably the hundredth time since Jackson begged me to let him walk home with his friends, Tanner and Chase.
“Moooom,” he groans, rolling his eyes at me.
“Just checking.” I hold up my hands in self-defense, relenting, though I’m pretty sure giving Jackson the new responsibility and freedom has given me more than a few gray hairs.
It’s not my son I don’t trust.
It’s the rest of the world.
But he’s right.
We live in a safe neighborhood, and most of the kids from his class have started to walk home without adult supervision by now.
I just have to keep reminding myself it’s only three blocks. He’ll be safe walking with his friends that far.Right?
“You don’t have to worry about me, you know,” he promises, his annoyance dwindling as he shifts into his usual space of understanding. I swear, when it comes to empathy, Jackson has a majority share.
“I know, Jay. But that’s my job.” Draping my arm across his shoulders, I pull him into my side and plant a kiss on the top of his head as we turn the corner and the school comes into sight.
Cramming the last of his burrito into his mouth, he crumples his tinfoil and passes it to me with a mumbled thanks, then he wraps his arms around my waist for a quick hug before he dashes the last of the distance to the red brick building just as the muted sound of the warning bell rings.
“I love you!” I call, cupping my hands around my mouth as he disappears inside the door.
I take a moment just to appreciate my little boy. Then I turn to head toward the nearest platform to get on the L.
It’s just a twenty-minute train ride into the city from Jackson’s school, and I arrive at the flower shop I opened blocks from the Magnificent Mile.
Blossoms has been nothing short of a labor of love to bring into fruition—and building my business from the ground up while raising Jackson on my own has stretched my endurance to its very limits.
But now that the store is thriving and Jackson is old enough to be in school full-time, I’ve finally found the kind of contentment people talk about.
We won’t ever be millionaires, by any means, but I feel blessed that my passion for growing plants has been able to support a life for me and Jackson in a safe neighborhood and a warm home.
