PAGE 8 — THE PHOTOGRAPH ON THE WALL

A few days after my son returned home, I printed both photographs.

The fourteen-year-old version.

And the twenty-four-year-old version.

I put them in matching frames.

My husband looked at me strangely.

“What are you doing?”

“Putting them on the wall.”

“Both?”

“Both.”

He smiled.

“You really want people to see them?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

I looked at the two photographs.

“Because they’re both our son.”

The younger picture showed a teenager experimenting with his appearance.

The older picture showed a confident young man who had found his own style.

Neither photograph embarrassed me.

Neither one represented a mistake.

They represented two chapters of the same life.

My son came into the room while I was hanging them.

He stared at the wall.

“You actually put them up.”

“Of course.”

He smiled.

“I thought you’d hide the old one.”

“Why would I?”

“Because I look so different.”

I turned toward him.

“You’re supposed to look different.”

He laughed.

“Not everyone thinks that way.”

“Then maybe everyone needs to learn.”

He walked over and studied the pictures.

After a moment, he said:

“I used to hate looking at pictures of myself at fourteen.”

“Why?”

“Because I thought everyone was judging me.”

“And now?”

He looked at the older photograph.

“Now I just feel sorry for that kid.”

I frowned.

“Why?”

“Because he spent so much time wondering whether he was good enough.”

Then he smiled.

“He was.”

I wrapped my arms around him.

And for the first time, I understood that my job as a mother hadn’t been to predict who my son would become.

It had been to make sure he knew he was loved while he figured it out.