The first time you stayed out all night in college, you felt exhilarated and free.

You were out with whom you wanted, doing what you wanted; the more illegal, the better.

When you finally crawled into bed, stinking of cigarettes and booze and summer sweat, you caught a glimpse of the time and you shouted with glee, realizing your newborn freedom, realizing that this was but the first night of many nights in four years.

You also sort of missed her sitting up when you got home. For a split second.

You wouldn't miss the mandatory family dinners, the enforced conservativeness of your wardrobe, the bombardment of questions every time you walked out the door and the injustice you felt when she'd read your journal.

When she was vacuuming, your young, impressionable mind was listening to the Offspring.

And when the vacuum stopped and she heard the words, she marched into your room and took it from you.

And there you stood, dumbfounded, defeated.

You bought that album with your hard-earned money. Damn it. You paid for those words. You deserved every second of that compact disc.

And you retrieved it the second she forgot that she'd hidden it in her second-to-bottom dresser drawer.

And she'd said, "I do it because I love you," and you didn't understand.

You never would. You hated her, of this you were sure.

You'd never forgive her. Things would never change.

Oh, the injustice. And you stomped up stairways and slammed doors to convey it.

Because she loved you. Right. As if it's supposed to mean anything to the developing teenager who needed his freedom, the girl who needed her privacy.

And then you grew up and went away.

Freshman year, she drove you and your boxes of bedding, clothing and music to school for the first time. She winced at the sight of the college culture which would immediately be yours.

The pot-leaf flags, windows aligned with glowing liquor bottles. Oh, that college culture?

Your mouth drooled at the sight of it. Freedom. Pure, unadulterated independence.

You reveled in it.

She could only hope that the years of guidance would have left some sort of imprint on your conscience.

Because you were all grown up and out of her hands.

The phone calls replaced family dinners. You only had to tell her what you wanted, but she knew better. She knows you more than you give her credit for.

But the novelty of freedom started to wear off when you realized you'd be reading for hours every night and writing papers on all you'd read. And then your first college relationship fell apart.

You'd have traded a buffet in the commons for a plate of her pasta. You sort of missed the aroma of her kitchen when you arrived home from school.

And even if for the first time, you missed her. Really.

Regardless of how much.

You needed her soup when you shuffled around your dorm room in slippers, in all of your sniffling, coughing glory.

Sometimes you called her to spill your stress-filled guts.

You failed an exam, you didn't get the lease, and your bike was stolen.

Maybe she couldn't summon the words instantly, but you found a card in your mailbox soon enough.

You live in a college town full of people in your situation.

So?

Sometimes you were lonely and it didn't matter that there were 40,000 kids to keep you company.

Nothing compared being next to her, because she'd rubbed your back or run her fingers through your hair every time you experienced uncertainty for twenty years.

Actually, she had a talent for fixing things.

And doing the right thing. Long before you knew what the right thing was.

You tried everything before finding your talent, and though you totally sucked at soccer and you couldn't sing, she was your biggest fan.

Your amateur artwork hung in her house.

She told you no. Often. And it broke your heart. But sometimes it broke hers too.

She lost sleep over you. She fed you before she fed herself. She was glad to do it.

She made countless sacrifices for you.

When you were sick, she was up taking care of you, though everyone else slept.

Sometimes you found yourselves in the drive-through and she only had enough for one meal -- and you were the one who got to eat it.

You grew to recognize her voice as the one that sang you to sleep and ended every conversation with affection.

She hoped and prayed that you'd come along, and when you did, she thanked someone for answered prayers, for your life, your good health, and the fact that you had ten fingers and ten toes.

You loved her long before your memories prove so. She's the first woman who loved you.

I don't think she'd mind if you called right now to say hello.

Actually, I'm sure she wouldn't.