Lisa Goldberg Brown
The house feels heaviest in the hours after the last of the kids pull away from the driveway; quiet in a way that presses against the walls. Thanksgiving always does this: fills the home to the brim, then empties it in an instant. A beautiful, bittersweet tease.
Before they come home, I move through the house with a familiar anticipation. I buy their favorite snacks, straighten the rooms they left behind and reopen drawers that haven’t been touched since summer. Empty nesting has a rhythm, but their absence never stops echoing. I’ve learned to live with the quiet, but I never quite stop missing the noise.
And then suddenly they’re home. A door slams, a suitcase thuds and someone shouts “Mom!” and the whole house exhales. Everything shifts. The rooms feel fuller, brighter. Their shoes pile up by the door like old times and the kitchen becomes our gathering place again. For a few days, I get to watch them not just as who they were, but as who they’re becoming—confident and growing in ways that both surprise me and feel unmistakably right.
Thanksgiving dinner becomes a moment I want to freeze: all of us around the table, laughter and stories spilling out, the energy electric and comforting all at once. I sit quietly sometimes, just watching these nearly grown adults who still look most like themselves when they’re home.
But even in the middle of it, I feel the tug of what’s coming. The tease is knowing how brief it will be.
And then packing begins. Suitcases reappear, laundry gets folded and their goodbyes stretch longer than they used to. I hug them tightly, memorizing the warmth of each moment. When they finally drive off, I stand in the doorway until the car disappears, holding onto the smile they left me with and the ache that follows right behind it.
Inside, the house is a soft mess of memories: an abandoned water bottle, a forgotten sock, the lingering scent of their shampoo. These tiny leftovers become small comforts, reminders that the fullness was real, even if temporary.
This is the new rhythm of motherhood: a heart expanding and contracting with every arrival and departure. Pride and ache braided together. Joy in who they’re becoming, and tenderness for the girl I was when they filled the house every day.
Winter break will come soon enough. The house will fill again. The laughter will return. Thanksgiving teases, but it also promises: they will always find their way back home, and I will always be here, ready for the next beautiful, fleeting fullness.
Lisa Goldberg Brown is a debut author and mother of three college-age children. Her writing reflects the humor, heart and perspective that come from raising a family into adulthood.
