"Hi," Wilson greets shakily, looking down at you. He's grown taller than you and looks so much like his father that it's hard to tell a difference. His fingers can't help but nervously fiddle with the old, worn flannel he wore.

Peter, his dad, and you didn't work out. There was a heartbreaking divorce when Peter decided that he enjoyed the love your then best friend gave over you. It was soul-crushing, but Wilson was too young to understand anything.

He was only six. And at the age of six, his father meant everything to him. He was the one who played fun games with him while you made him eat vegetables and do his homework. So when the courts settled and looked at Wilson to see who he would like to go with, there was no other choice.

Wilson was too young to see how much that broke you. Peter wouldn't let you see him because he would move to another state. No matter how hard you tried, you could not reach him unless you moved into that state, too, but with little to your name from being a housewife at the time, there was no way.

Now, your 18-year-old son stood at your front door after twelve years.

Wilson felt like he had no right to complain after leaving you, not when his father turned to alcohol when every relationship after you failed. Not when Peter would take his anger out on Wilson daily as a kid.

He chose that path. He didn't choose you.

"It's me; it's Wilson," he added in a shaky voice in case you couldn't recognize him. It'd be understandable, and it's been so long.