“So, you just got him the car, huh?” the old man at the gas station flashed a warm, knowing smile like someone who remembered handing over the keys to their own kid for the first time. “Mitsubishi Outlander. Good car,” he added with a nod.

It was a well-used secondhand car, nothing fancy. But his comment wasn’t really about the vehicle. It was small talk, a simple gesture, his way of joining the moment. From one parent to another.

Right then, I felt connected to every parent who’d been here before. I wondered how many others had stood like this, feeling proud, a little anxious, and quietly amazed as they watched their kid pump gas into their very first set of wheels.

“Yeah, his first car.” I said, glancing over at my son finishing up at the pump. “Took us a while to figure out how to open the gas tank. YouTube to the rescue.” We laughed.

Eighteen years ago, as a first-time parent, I had no idea what to expect. When the moment came, I could only gasp at the small miracle as the midwife placed him on my chest. I can still feel his tiny body pressed against mine — warm, breathing, crying his lungs out. From that moment on, I held onto the warmth. It became the steady beat of my new world.

Since then, all the big and small milestones I’d once seen other families experience slowly became our own. He grew, crawled, walked, talked, weaned. Everything unfolded as if we were part of a shared rhythm.

I was never the type to document every “first.” I think I saved one baby tooth, a short list of his first words, a photo from his first day at daycare. Even with my love for photography, I missed a lot of milestones. But this time, I didn’t. I made sure to capture him in front of his first car.

The truth is, I’m a bit lost.

The milestones up to now gave me a clear sense of who I was: a parent. I was needed — to fix, to listen, to cheer. I was a shoulder to cry on, sometimes the one absorbing the frustration. I was someone’s whole world. Home.

Now, that’s changing. Like tectonic plates shifting beneath the surface, it’s unsettling everything I thought was solid. The ground beneath the version of me I thought I knew is shifting.

Maybe this is what they mean by empty nest syndrome.

What’s hardest is knowing that from now on, time with my son will come in shorter doses. This might be the last long ride we take side by side.

I think back to family vacations with my dad. He’d say, “This is a rare moment. We won’t get many like this.” I’d roll my eyes and say, “You always make it sound like it’s the last time.”

I didn’t get it then. Now, decades later, I hear myself saying the same thing to my son.

It feels like a breakup. Knowing the door won’t open again quite the same way. He didn’t come with a manual, so maybe it’s no surprise there’s no roadmap for letting go either.

Someone once said our children aren’t ours, but gifts to the world. It’s a beautiful idea, and probably true. But I don’t feel ready. Maybe I never will. Maybe no parent ever is.

They just do it.

He still has many milestones ahead. I won’t be his co-pilot anymore. But hopefully, he’ll find others to guide him through the hairpin bends, just as he needs.

I try to remember who I was at my son’s age. The last thing I wanted was to keep living under the same roof. I was ready to fly.

And my parents cleared the runway for me. From them to me, and now from me to him. The natural handover of life. Bittersweet. Inevitable.

Yes, parenthood comes with heartbreak. It’s the small print we never read. An ongoing outpouring, given freely, hoping only for the flourishing of another.

And as he drives forward into his own story, I’ll be here. Quietly cheering from the sidelines. Grateful for every mile we’ve shared.