“You have an old soul, Noah,” I said, leaning my head against his arm as we crossed the lawn toward his freshman dormitory.
“I have your soul, Mom,” he replied simply, squeezing my fingers with steady, unshakeable devotion.
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We stopped outside the heavy wooden doors of Matthews Hall, where the yellow light from the entryway spilled across the stone stoop.
“Go up and get some sleep, my darling; tomorrow you have your formal matriculation ceremony with the faculty,” I urged him.
Noah hugged me tightly, kissing my cheek with that same sweet innocence he had carried since he was an infant in my arms.
“I’ll meet you at the cafe on Bow Street at eight for breakfast, Mom,” he promised, turning the brass handle of the door.
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I stood on the wet sidewalk until the door clicked shut and his silhouette appeared behind the second-floor window.
I pulled my coat around my neck and began the slow walk back to my modest bed-and-breakfast near Harvard Square.
