My youngest, Ben, has been in NYC with the high school band this week, and tonight I get him back — along with what I assume will be 742 photos and a strong opinion about how New York is “buns” compared to his trip to London last year with EF Tours.

This week has also been a preview of what my life might look like when he leaves for college next year.

It’s… quiet.

The house, though modest for the area, feels very large when I’m here alone; I haven’t needed to go down to the basement once all week, which feels both efficient and vaguely ominous. When I let Molly out in the mornings, I sip my tea and gaze out over the expansive acre lot and quietly dread things like poop scooping and mowing; two skills I have successfully avoided my entire life.

My life feels very small. I mean, it always has done, but this was next level.

I work from my home office, leaving at lunch to walk Molly around the “neighborhood.” I come home, work some more, do some odd chores, maybe drive over to the pharmacy, watch some trashy TV or read, and go to bed. I imagine if Eric were alive, we’d be going on dates and drives, planning get-aways, visiting the kids together, and doing all those little life-sharing things that can make a small life feel well-rounded.