My son. Her husband.

How did I know he was serious about her? By the way he kept her a secret—to himself, not even mentioning they’d been hanging out. That’s what my twenty-seven-year-old son, JT, does. He’s a caretaker and slips into protective mode when something or someone is important to him. By the time he was ready to share her, I could tell the love bug had sunk its teeth deep into his being. 

He met Bonnie in Air Force tech school in Texas. Months of pandemic lockdown with nothing to do but school, talking, Dungeons and Dragons, and more talking bonded them. When it was a sure thing she would be sent overseas after school while he was stationed stateside, the trip to introduce her to us (and him to her family) turned into a wedding. 

Although we’d only talked a couple of times on the phone and spent a few hours together once they were in town, it is clear why he loves her. So, what is it that I want to be sure she knows about him? What do I say to this sweet, beautiful young woman who captured the heart of my son? 

JT, I told her as the stylist fussed with her hair on her wedding day, is loyal and thoughtful and he’ll always take care of you. Bonnie smiled as if she were already sure of this and a faded memory forced tears to my eyes.

He was five years old and we were running through the grocery store parking lot to our car. Running just to run, not because it was raining or someone was chasing us. Laughing like we were both five. Then the concrete parking barrier ruined all the fun. I went sprawling over it, grocery bags flew. Asphalt chewed up my knees and palms. 

I gathered my dignity and my groceries and drove us home. As I put the bags in the kitchen, he took my hand and led me to the bathroom where he commanded I sit on the edge of the tub. He pulled the hydrogen peroxide from the cabinet and surveyed my knees. With as deep a furrowed brow as a five-year-old can have, he warned me, “This might sting.” 

Amused, I watched him pour the liquid over my wounds, realizing how many times he’d been on the receiving end of this therapy. Then came the moment that stole my breath. He leaned close and blew on the frothing liquid. Tenderly. Gently. His slow, soft breaths swept across my knees, and he looked into my eyes with the clear desire that he was helping his mom be okay.

Now, I can rattle off plenty of other times that I know he has sacrificed for others, stood by family in need, and gone out of his way to encourage friends. I’ve watched him do these things simply, without thinking twice about it, or seeking any accolades. I’ve watched him do them with his jaw set and back straight, and the confident gaze of a strong young man warning the world not to mess with those he cares about.

And I’m proud. Proud of him and of that nurturing, loyal, caretaking part of who he is. I’m also proud that I maybe, just maybe, had something to do with his compassionate side. Our children, after all, are a product of all of the influences on their lives, not just one. Was he simply mimicking me when he blew on my skinned knees all those years ago?  Partly, of course, but there’s more. He could’ve gone to play in his room or watched TV. I didn’t ask him to clean my wounds, because I was more than capable. He chose to take care of me that day because that was important—I was important—to him.

And that, my beautiful new daughter, Bonnie, is how I know he’ll always take care of you.