Tomorrow’s Sorrow

Last night I was driving home and stopped at the store to pick up a few things. The same store where, several weeks earlier, I’d encountered the young woman I wrote about in Somebody’s Daughter.

As I pulled into the parking lot, I noticed a man standing beside the road, asking for help. He looked to be in his mid-thirties.

Years ago, I might have driven past without giving him much thought. Now I see someone’s son. Someone’s daughter. Someone with a family and a story I don’t know. I don’t give money, but when I can, I’ll buy someone food or water. I can’t solve their circumstances. But I can acknowledge that they’re there.

I was on the phone with my wife, asking whether she needed anything else from the store. And suddenly, I wasn’t thinking about groceries anymore.

I was thinking about my son. That could be him one day.

It hit me so quickly that I said something to my wife. “Shit. I think I’m beginning to understand what he means when he talks about triggers.”

Because that’s exactly what it felt like. I saw a man standing beside the road. That was all that happened. But the sight brought an emotion. The emotion brought a thought. And the thought brought more emotion. Within seconds, my mind had taken me somewhere I didn’t want to go.

My wife told me to stay positive. I understood what she meant. But part of me wanted to argue. We can’t pretend that everything will always be okay. We know how quickly things can change. We know that tomorrow could bring another phone call, another relapse, another crisis.

My son has been doing well. He’s coming up on a milestone that means a great deal to us. But we’ve been here before. And that’s what makes the fear so difficult. It’s not imaginary. It’s built from things that have actually happened.

Yet sitting in that parking lot, I realized I was doing something I’ve spent years trying to stop. I was living through a future that hadn’t arrived.

The man beside the road wasn’t my son. My son was somewhere else, living his life and doing well today. Nothing had happened to change that. And still, for those few moments, I was already grieving something that might never happen.

I was fortunate to have my wife on the phone. I could say what I was feeling instead of letting it build inside me. But even after we talked, I still had to bring myself back.

Stay with the moment. Let tomorrow arrive.

Not because I’m ignoring what could happen. Because my son is doing well today, and I don’t want to lose today’s peace to tomorrow’s possible sorrow.

I drove into the store to buy groceries. For a few moments, fear had taken me somewhere else.

Then I came back.