I used to think I'd have a really great relationship with my kids once they reached their teens. We'd hang out and listen to The Police and Bruce Springsteen – you know, the kind of music that makes you want to cringe and dance at the same time. I'd open their minds to real culture and they'd appreciate the musical genius of my generation.
We'd bond. It'd be cool.
The day my oldest son turned thirteen, his bedroom door slammed shut. He hasn't been seen since. Oh, I've gone to the door and pounded on it. "Open up! I know you're in there! We can see your device use on the wireless server!"
Once I caught a glimpse of Sam streaking toward the bathroom before the door closed with a bang. I raced after him and rattled the door knob but it had already locked. "Sam! Open up! I'm your mother and I miss you. So does your father. We love you but we don't even remember what you look like."
"I'm not Sam," said the boy, replying through the door. "I'm Steve."
I frowned. "Who's Steve? And where's Sam?"
Time passed. We had another possible Sam-sighting one Saturday morning on a soccer field. We'd heard from a friend-of-a-friend that our son was on a team, so we rose at the crack of dawn to drive down to the local sports park. There, huddled in the cold and and the dark, a thin blanket our only protection against the gusty wind, we caught a glimpse of a boy with familiar blond hair.
I got teary-eyed. "That might be my son," I said.
My husband waved to him. "Hey, boy, remember us? Mom and dad?"
The boy frowned. "Mom and Dad who?"
Melissa Snark writes erotic romance. Visit her site at www.MelissaSnark.com to learn more.