My firefly is 18

Eighteen years ago, an early-morning check-up with my doc turned into Jack’s birthday. “I’ll bet my 401K this baby won’t engage, and you have pre-eclampsia. We need to take him by c-section today. You didn’t eat anything yet today, did you?” “No. Ohhhh. Wait. I straightened the pan of brownies.”

And thus, the c-section was pushed back an hour. A call to work, a quick trip home to pack my bag, and wham bam, two hours later, Jack entered this world, spraying a golden stream of pee across all the nurses’ chests as the doc handed him over.

My heart was no longer in my body; it was tethered like a balloon to my grip, where it since remained. Vulnerable to this world. Exposed. Fiercely protected.

Raising Jack has been the greatest honor and responsibility of my life.

“Mary, there is magic and special inside of him,” my mom once admonished. “You need to harness it.”

She was right.

This child – now adult (gulp) – is funny, kind, compassionate, witty, and confident. He has grit. He persevered through a move across country in the middle of COVID, leaving family, his best buddies, his soccer community, and his sense of home. “Jack, the same magic that is inside of you traveled with you here; it stays with you,” I told him on his first day of high school in South Carolina. We had only arrived two weeks prior and were still living in a hotel.

Then only months later came Brady’s cancer diagnosis, and what turned to be a two-year battle. Sitting in the car together after I explained Brady's roadmap, I turned to a teary-eyed, scared Jack. “Your life doesn’t stop because of this. You keep building your life, and know that YOU matter in all of this. Just. Keep. Going.”

And man, did he go. He learned to drive in crazy traffic. He gave his all to tennis and kept playing and driving to tournaments, where he’d get his butt kicked over and over. He joined DECA. He took a full load of AP and honors classes, because he wanted to try and graduate with honors. He made friends. Wonderful friends. And he nurtured his friendships back home.

Today, Jack is VP of Leadership for DECA South Carolina, and has competed at the state (1st place!) and international level. He graduated from Palmetto Boys State, and was not only elected to the House of Representatives, but State Chairman, where he spoke before 1,000 kids, whom he now considers brothers. He is on the varsity tennis team and no longer gets his butt kicked at these tennis tournaments across the Southeast region. He is interning for Lexington-Columbia’s top Realtor, Sarah Bennett, because he had the audacity to put himself out there and ask.

None of this is about what he accomplished, though. It isn’t even about how he did it. It’s that he tried. He put in the work, allowed himself to be vulnerable, and Just. Kept. Going.

For anyone who knows us, you know that Jack and I are extremely tight. For many years, it was just the two of us. We imprinted on each other early on. Today, we share a mind, a sense of humor and can read each other the minute we walk into the room. We share the same zest for life, the need to capture “the special” in moments, and a love of experiences and traditions. We travel well together. We do Disney all day, all night, and come back for more first thing in the morning.

Jack has always been my light, a firefly of sorts. His mere existence makes my life twinkle and shimmer. No matter how dark or how hard a situation is, his spark of light illuminates my path.

I’ve been warned that it will crush me when he leaves. And everyone is 100 percent right. I would love nothing more than to keep him mine for the rest of our lives. To put this firefly in a safe and cozy jar, so I can keep loving and watching him with wonder, whenever and wherever I want.

But even I know that the confines of the jar would diminish his light over time. He’d be mine, but his twinkle would be gone.

And that is what I’ve realized. For as much light as Jack brings my world, the world is HIS oxygen and fuel … it’s what makes him flicker.

This beautiful world has made Jack.

Jack has made my world.

And together, he will keep fluttering and flickering, and I will keep running toward the comet of twinkly fairy dust in his trail, cheering for him and telling him to keep going.

He’s 18. He does not belong to me. Never has. He is this world’s, this universe’s. And collectively, we will keep him held while watching him go.