when you become the adult in the room

He called to ask about

his phone's operating system,

and I could hear the fear

underneath his words,

the apology in his voice,

bracing for impatience

or worse—kindness.

I walked him through it.

Tap here. Wait. Now.

And he took notes,

wrote down my words

like they were worth saving,

like I was the kind of person

people listened to.

Last month, I watched him hold it,

fingers trembling,

afraid he'd already broken it,

and I understood

in the way you understand

something you can't undo:

this is the shift.

This is when he becomes

smaller than he was,

not in body,

not in voice,

but in certainty,

in the way

he takes up space,

in the way

he assumes

he knows.

I used to think

he knew everything.

Used to watch him

fix things,

move through the world

like it was his to own,

and now—

now I'm the one

explaining.

Now I'm the one

with the answers.

Now I'm the one

he's asking.

And it's not sad,

exactly.

It's just the strange mathematics

of growing up:

you get larger

as they get smaller,

you get stronger

as they fade,

and by the time you understand

what you've become,

they're already asking you

how to turn things on.