In the darkness of a child’s bedroom, I stretch my legs out, parallel to my child’s, two sets of limbs going opposite directions, complementary.

I close my eyes for a moment and remember another room, another pair of legs mirroring mine.

My parents’ house, on a yellow, flowered couch, my legs stretched out, his opposite mine. It wasn’t dark – it was after school, he was dropping off my chemistry textbook. I can’t remember why he had it, just that he did.

In the dark, in the now, past his bedtime, my child shares the minutiae of the mobile phone game about Mario he loves. He tells me about how he liked using my phone this time. I lean back, put my head on my chest, feign sleep. He knows better and continues on, giggling at his own jokes.

In the past, I lean forward, eyes watching, hanging on to all the words coming out of this high school boy’s mouth. He talks of philosophy – probably far less deeply than either of us thought at the time, but it was the thought that counted – and superheroes and science fiction. I respond back, always having something to add. None of my interest is feigned – I don’t know how to do so and will never truly learn. Instead, I simply feel safe. I’m listening to him and know he is listening to me, in a way that few people ever have or will.

Across from me in the present, my son declares “I’m Baby Yoshi!” the dinosaur from the Mario game. He quiets for a moment, then observes, “I’m having a thumb war with my own hands.” I laugh and say, “Go to sleep.” There’s a few more minutes of quiet, then a little tiny “toot.” A small voice pipes up: “Is that the littlest fart you ever heard?” I shake my head and laugh again. How can I not?

This high school boy, he made me laugh too. Laugh so much that I forget my self-seriousness and my anxiety and my insecurity. Laugh in a way that I wasn’t really sure that I could and certainly at times sure I couldn’t.

Hearing my older son finish getting ready for bed, I tell my younger son, “I’ve got to go kiss your brother goodnight.” I pull the covers up and hand him his Baby Elephant. “I love you.”

Back then – 20 years ago, no 22 years ago – I didn’t know I was in love with that high school boy. He certainly didn’t know he was in love with me. And if you told me that more than two decades later, I would be tucking our child into bed while he tucked in the other one, I would be truly befuddled.

But in a way, it all started back on that couch, a boy and girl sitting across from each other, legs stretched out, talking, feeling safe and accepted. Just as we try to make our children feel now. Just as we still make each other feel, every day.