I used to run my fingers through his soft chestnut brown hair and tell him, “I love you, and I’m always here for you, sweet dreams, and I'd kiss him on his forehead.” It was a simple ritual that was just as important as brushing your teeth, and to be honest with you, I needed it as much as him. I’ve always had a special bond with my baby boy, and I know his friends would call him a ‘Momma’s boy,’ but we were more than mother and son, we were more than friends. It’s a special bond that transcends any typical mother and son relationship, we’re close in the way that he can read my feelings just by looking at me, and I can sense when something is wrong in his life even if we’re apart. He married a French woman named Sabine, she looks a lot like me, full breasts, bright red hair, blue eyes, and porcelain skin but I knew she was not good for him. She took him away to live in Bordeaux for seven long years, and he never wanted to leave on the Holidays. I knew something was wrong, and Sabine would always find some excuse to interrupt my alone time with him, but when he would leave I would help him on with his coat, embrace him, and whisper in his ear, “I love you and I’m always here for you.”