I saw them at the airport. The loading zone. The kid was standing there. Wearing his uniform.

OCP fatigues. Boots. Patrol cap. His backpack was about the size of a Buick. His face was youthful and round. His cheeks were rosy. He looked like Wally Cleaver.

Beside him was his mom, waiting by the idling car. An SUV. One of those small Japanese SUVs, about the size of a roller skate, only with less legroom.

At least I think it was his mom. The mom was probably in her fifties. Although it’s hard to tell when a mother has gray hair. Which she did.

Airports are sterile, ugly places. There is nothing romantic about goodbyes. Not in an airport, when you know TSA employees are about to touch you inappropriately without first buying you dinner.

The mom straightened the kid’s collar. She told him she loved him, then gave him a shoulder touch.

It was the classic motherly goodbye.

She told him to remember to call his daddy sometimes.

The kid was vaping. The air smelled like strawberry. “I will,” said the kid.

“Your dad worries about you.”

The kid mumbled something.

“And don’t forget to text me,” said Mom. “Just let me know how you’re doing. I know you can’t tell me everything, but, tell me what you can.”

“Okay.”

A long silence. The kid let go a cloud. Travelers came and went. Young passengers hauled expensive luggage inside. Uber drivers dropped people off and hustled for their tips.

The Mom smiled at her boy. It was the kind of smile only mothers can give. It’s an I’ve-known-you-since-you-were-in-diapers smile.

“You, alright?” Mom said.

“I’m good.”

Mom nodded.

“I know you’re going to do great,” she said.

More mumbling. The kid didn’t want his mom pep-talking him. He’s in the Army now.

“I better go,” he said.

“Yeah.”

The kid gave her a hug. The hug evidently meant more to her than it did him. You could tell by the looks on their faces. He was impassive. She looked like she was undergoing a kidney operation.

“Is your phone charged?” she asked.

“Yeah.”

“Make sure you eat enough. It’s a long flight.”

“I will.”

He walked inside. He tugged open a door and simply walked away. Just like that. No turning back. The American soldier, leaving home.

She stayed in the same place, watching. She covered herself like she was cold. And even I knew which phrase the kid had forgotten to say.

Mom was turning back to go to her car. Long faced.

That’s when the kid came back. He threw open the door and surprised her. His bag on his shoulders. His cheeks, so very smooth.

“Mom,” he said.

She turned. “Did you forget something?”

“I love you, Mom,” said the kid. His voice seemed about 20 years younger. “I just love you.”

“I love you more,” she said.

He smiled back. Then he was gone.

And I think Mom was dead wrong.