The choice is made.

The housing contract is sent.

The letter of intent is signed and mailed.

It is real.

There are two steps in my family. On the first sit the three sons I had with my first husband, who died fourteen years ago. On the next, sit my two daughters and "the little boys," Will and Atticus, aged 3 and 1.

Marty used to be the youngest of "the little boys."

Since last November, we have spent an unwonted amount of time together, traveling from city to city, as he auditioned for college programs in Musical Theatre. These programs are tiny and intense. Some to which Marty applied -- and one to which he was accepted -- "took" only three boys and three girls.

An audition is a grueling process for the parent and the teenager. He has to dance and to sing, whether he's in good voice or whether he isn't. He has to act, even if his mind is elsewhere, and make his auditors believe he is a 15-year-old in Kentucky or a 21-year-old in Missouri.

Who knew he was so good? We didn't. We thought that theatre was possibly a vocation and possibly a hobby. Truly, we didn't think Marty had what it took to go all the way. The assessment of the heads of several respected programs convinced us he might.

He did it.

Except for the school where he first auditioned, Martin was accepted into every program. And then the truly agonizing part began -- choosing. Choosing on the basis of quality and cost and comfort and .. distance from home.

Not only is Marty in love, he's a sort of "home boy." He's the kind of boy who picks up his 3-year-old brother and carries him downstairs to keep him company while he dresses for a date.

During the process of choosing a college, Martin and I said things to each other so cruel I can't imagine saying them to another person. He called me a witch. I called him a nutcase. Each of us, at one point, pulled the car over and got out to take a breath and count to ten -- or thumb a ride, if it came to that. There were times he had to sing one of his audition songs -- the old classic 'Mama, A Rainbow' - which says in part, "What do you give to the lady who has given/All her life and love to you/What do you give to the reason you are living/I could window shop the world before I'm through.." -- through clenched teeth.

And now, it is finished.

And now, my heart is truly breaking. It truly hurts.

I open Martin's door and look at him as he sleeps. I insist on a hug when he leaves to go out.

I know that he has needed to tear his love for me limb from limb in order to make this separation bearable; but I can't do that. I'll miss
Marty's voice raised in song, his jokes, his crazy-lavish use of cologne, his teasing. I can't bear to think how quiet this house will be, still with five kids in it. I don't even know how his two-years-old brother feels. They fight to the point of injury sometimes. They disrespect and abuse each other. They love each other with a loyalty like no other. Dan goes to a college in our hometown. He can still live at home for another year. He complains about it; but he's grateful.

Martin would have done that too.

He made noises about attending the university in our hometown, to save us money (and he was genuine about wanting to do that). But the program there didn't offer all he needed; and we had to pretend to be hard in insisting that he venture just a little farther. We even had to say that it would... probably be a good thing for him to be on his own, that he was ready, that he was pushing all the buttons and bulldozing all the fences.

We didn't mean it.

I didn't mean it.

For a nickel, I'd take it all back. And that wouldn't be good for either him or me. When my husband died, Marty was my pal, my little human teddy bear, my 3-year-old sidekick on the unfamiliar mountain path of grief. He slept at the food of my too-large bed some nights. He learned to ride a bike under my hand.

I will never forget the day he took off alone. He tossed back one triumphant glance.

I wonder how it will be this time.

Jackie M.