You hesitate before leaving. You look into those familiar eyes and cannot believe that it has been 18 years and a lifetime ago that you lingered in another doorway, a different set of green eyes tentatively watching you as the words 'be careful' lingered on the tip of your tongue.
As you look at him, you hover on the edge of wanting to embrace him. You know you won't, he knows you won't, but you know you won't tell him a word either. Because just like his mother, you know your words will be wasted and go unheeded, so you purse your lips to keep the quiver out of them, back ramrod straight and march out the door for what is quite likely the last time you will ever see him.
Because the last time you lingered in a doorway, on the verge of speech, you found yourself lingering in the doorway of a church some two months later, knowing no words would ever reach her now.