Nineteen Years

     On Monday I rejoined the Potter family at Platform 9 ¾.  For the characters, no time had elapsed since the tearful, soul-filling epilogue of “Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows” in July of 2007 and August 2016 – but for the first readers of the novels, the first audiences of the films, - it’s been a lifetime.

     Rowling did an excellent job of writing a children’s series for grown-ups.  I remember buying the novels “for my kids” and having to hyper-caffeinate my way through the school-morn routine due to staying up ‘til 3 AM to finish off the book so as to not be competing with my children for imagination time between its pages.  Doing so freed me to referee them with a sense of decorum, observing who had read how far and how long by tracking the movement of various bookmarks through the pages.  It also allowed me to ask important life questions cleverly disguised as book discussions:

     “Why do you think Dumbledore withheld that information from Harry?”

     “Would the outcome have changed if he hadn’t?”

     “Do you think Dumbledore feels responsible for some of the decisions Harry made?”

     Tuesday morning, I finished “Cursed Child”.  Hyper-caffeination was not required. My “house elves” were given their socks a few years ago, and they have gone on to their own abodes.  So, there was no one with whom I had to share the book – but that meant there was no one with whom I could share the book. Suddenly I realized I identified most with Dumbledore’s portrait: an animated memory to be glanced at for reference.  Like him, I look out from my frame into my young adult children’s lives, powerless to intercede, but still hopeful that enough wisdom was instilled in the past for them to apply to their present.

     Determined to attend to the dust-motes of angst stirred by the retrospective tome, I called my eldest child, who now lives several hours away. The Child Who Must Not Be Named (TCWMNBN) gave me some unexpected news: a relationship of nearly two years had ended.

     My first reaction to the news was to express my sympathy for those involved in the status change, and my next was to apologize for my bad example, which surely had somehow contributed to the melancholic event.  Then, a conversation followed that was even more surprising than the news of the break-up. I was rightfully, gently, firmly, (did I mention rightfully?) put in my place.

     First, I was told Thank You.  Thank you for being sad, Mom. Thank you for wanting to make all the hurt in my world go away.  Second, The Child Who Must Not Be Named called me out on my self-blame.  Why would I assume that I was such a bad parent that TCWMNBN could not learn from my mistakes and avoid them? Did I think TCWMNBN was stupid? Could I see the hubris in assuming blame for a relationship in which I was never a primary contributor? And why on earth did I automatically equate the ending of the relationship with failure?

     Smart kid. 

     Just maybe, like Harry and Albus, we need to trust the truth of our love for one another just a wee bit more – and use it like a compass to navigate our way through the dissimilar expectations of our mutual adulthoods.