No tears please. My son is alive and well. Put your handkerchiefs (or if the west, tissue) away. It’s just that when they grow up, they act like they’re “#grownups.” It’s so unreasonable. When I was in my thirties, if I went out with his Dad he bawled like I’d just killed his mother and was running away with the family jewels (pun). Now? If I stay home it’s to keep the light on for young Lord Lochinvar. What happens to us when our children grow up? Partly, it sets me free that I don’t constantly worry about his well-being….