Two Strangers

A personal essay by Alison Linnell

From birth, we drill into our children the concept of Stranger Danger, but what happens when we become that stranger.

“Can’t we be friends?” My hope in asking was to be something more than contentious relatives, strangers.

“We’re not friends, mom. A friend is someone I want to hang out with.” He was irritated by my asking, repeatedly, to meet his new girlfriend. I knew that. I had failed in accepting his friends in the past, and he believed the outcome this time would be no different, so he kept his life – his friends, his feelings, his future – at a distance.

It is hard to pinpoint the moment one’s child becomes a stranger. He possibly would name a specific instance; I could think of several.


Yet, there are times I wonder if I ever knew him. Is it possible I had projected my story on him? Every mother has hopes for their child’s decisions and desires for their happiness. The expectations might seem daunting. But now, as we have drifted apart, the list of things I would change is long. What was his list? What does he want different? What is his story?

. . .

“I just called to tell you why I am leaving.”  It was an odd thing to overhear on my early morning run. The stranger leaned against his haphazardly parked car pulled over on the side of a deserted road, and broke this news over the phone. His tone told me it was not employment he was ending. He had to believe he was completely alone when he dialed the number, and I felt a bit embarrassed having intruded on his private conversation, yet I found myself curious, wanting, needing to stop and listen. A tiny part of me thought I should ask him if he needed help, but most of me wanted to shout, “What kind of coward leaves a break-up message!”

For days, I wondered about the recipient of that message – when she heard it, if she was still crying, if she begged him to return, if she was relieved he had left. But as the days passed, I pondered why I did not consider his side of the story. What prompted him to leave? How long had he suffered? And why separating was easier than staying? What is his story?

. . .

“Maybe, they can’t see yellow,” I jested to my friend. She had spent our time together glaring out the coffee shop’s window, obsessing about the way the black Honda straddled between two parking stalls, and proposing, almost demanding, I be incensed too.

Looking at the Honda – as it consumed two stalls – it was easy to see how the owner felt entitled. It seems he should understand the one-stall-per-car system of parking, especially in a crowded parking lot. Yet, the Honda could have been on loan, and his step-father insisted he park that way. Or maybe his dog had died that morning, and he was overcome with grief. I don’t know.

“Thanks. . . Alison.” Even though my friend’s words indicated she was grateful for my rebuke, her tone told me otherwise.

The quip was a reminder of patience for me not her. When my friend said, “Doesn’t he know how he is affecting other people!” inwardly I agreed he had to be a self-centered jerk. But I was determined to be more accepting, more open, less critical. I had projected my story before, and been wrong. Could he be hurting? Could he be tired of expectations? What is his story?

. . . 

“I said hell! Not help!” He was mimicking me. My son told his version of the time his little sister thought I needed help, when boxes toppled down on my head in our storage room, while trying to put the heavy Christmas tree box back on its shelf. He had told this story many times before. But this time his tone was playful, not critical. Swearing at my child was not a good parenting moment. I knew that. Maybe all he wanted was for me to admit it.

As we shared plates of sushi, we laughed, genuinely laughed, as he told other stories from his childhood – mostly about my parental fails – to his girlfriend. I am still not sure why he finally agreed to dinner. Well, the badgering had stopped, and the listening increased.

 “Mom, you didn’t have to buy.” We were still reminiscing, standing in a vacant parking stall next to my car. He said it as he reached out to give me a hug. And as we embraced, I was grateful for an evening of listening to his stories.