shrimp ramen and the space he left behind

today i opened a pack of shrimp ramen and thought of my oldest son. he moved out only nine months ago, yet his presence still hangs in the air like a familiar song. the moment the wrapper crinkled and the scent of shrimp rose from the pot, it caught me off guard. an ordinary act—boiling water, breaking noodles—suddenly became a memory that almost brought me to tears.

every day i pass his room. every day i half expect to hear the door creak open and see him step into the hallway, hair tousled, eyes still soft with sleep, asking what’s for dinner or slipping past me with a quiet grin. the space he left behind isn’t empty; it’s alive with echoes. his laughter hides in the corners, his old music seems to hum beneath the walls. the quiet that remains is heavier than i ever imagined, a silence that feels like a heartbeat paused mid-song.

no one tells you about this part of parenting. people warn you about first steps, first heartbreaks, the rush of milestones—but not the slow ache of letting go. they don’t tell you that you’ll keep setting a place for them in your mind, that you’ll keep waiting for the sound of their keys in the door. the letting go is not a single day. it is a long, tender unfolding.

love doesn’t leave when they do. it lingers in hallways and settles into the smallest rituals—a bowl of ramen, a late-night lamp, the rhythm of your own footsteps where theirs used to fall. it’s a love that waits, quiet and patient, blooming even in absence.

with ink + bloom, 🌻