Last night I asked Evan to come help me with a small project--a bulb broke off inside a can light, creating a short that tripped half the breakers in the house. I needed his height and his brawn to fix the problem.
He arrived in a bad mood and got worse as we worked until I finally told him I'd figure it out later. Then I gave him a darling fleece blanket I made for the baby.
Evan looked at the blanket and shrugged. "I don't have room in my apartment for all this baby stuff," he said. Then he turned and walked out of the house, leaving the blanket behind.
I've been in a major funk since that moment, more than 24 hours ago. I can't understand why my adult son can't manage to help me with a (very) occasional small project, why he would be so rude about something I'd obviously worked hard to make, why he can't receive the gift of my love. Why. Why. Why.
As always, I finally came to the same conclusion I always come to: I'll never understand.
I can do things for Evan and for the baby, but only because I want to. That has to be enough--expecting anything else simply breaks my heart. Over and over.