One day last summer, I spent the morning staffing an informational booth at our neighborhood farmer’s market. It was a beautiful day, perched just at the cusp of early fall, when the harvest is at its most bountiful and the weather at its most gracious. People seemed particularly at ease and happy as they moved from booth to booth, greeting acquaintances, sipping lattes, and exclaiming over the tomatoes. Children flitted about, weaving through the forest of adult legs and leashed dogs, fueled by fresh-baked, high-octane monster cookies.

         My two kids had stayed home with their dad, leaving me free to enjoy the childless peace and quiet. No sippy cups to unplug, no sibling squabbles to referee, no storybooks to read aloud. Just me and a neglected magazine, slouched in a lawn chair, watching the small crowd ebb and flow.

          Around midmorning, I noticed a young couple in their early twenties ambling along the sunlit produce stalls. The woman was slim, decked in tidy cargo pants and sturdy shoes. Her freshly washed hair was pulled into a sensible ponytail, framing an intelligent, friendly face that occupied the ambiguous area between plain and lovely. She examined the produce studiously and made her selections carefully, with all the gravity of a newly minted graduate student.

         The young man at her side possessed a similar, if far less sober, air of intelligence. He seemed bemused to find himself shopping for vegetables so soon after waking. A shock of bangs projected straight out from his forehead, underscoring the impression that he had tumbled out of bed perhaps a half-hour before, with no ministrations but for a cup of coffee. His corduroys and sweatshirt were comfortably well-worn but not quite shabby, and something about his sneakers suggested a habit of movement distinctly less casual than his present pace. The faintest hint of childhood still clung to him, softening his jaw in what was otherwise a fully adult face.

         The couple seemed keenly aware of one another and physically connected, although they weren’t even holding hands. Together, they made a wholesome, satisfying picture of two bright young people who were steadfastly, serenely in love. Watching them, I felt a mounting sense of yearning and a bewildering prick of tears. I couldn’t figure out why. I wasn’t envious, certainly. I know the joy of moving happily through the world with someone I love deeply and don’t begrudge others that pleasure.

         As they drew closer, I began to realize that it wasn’t actually the couple that was provoking this weirdly visceral response, it was the young man, and the reason that I couldn’t tear my eyes away was that he reminded me of my then four-year-old son, Ned. From his sandy-brown hair and sturdy frame, to the intelligent humor in his gaze, to the purposeful way that he filled his well-used shoes, the likeness was apparent. But it was his haphazard, projectile hairdo that really clinched it. Ned invariably sports that same ruff of hair every morning, each day’s version a variation on the same theme.

         In some odd trick of time and space and faint resemblance, I was having the uncanny experience of watching my little boy, eighteen years hence. Even more remarkably, I was seeing him as well grown and happy, stable and self-fulfilled, with nary a neurosis or personal demon in sight. My beloved son was just a slightly scruffy, normal guy, with a girlfriend I already approved of.

         I knew that it was just a daydream, but I was still overcome. What a gift to receive, however illusory and fleeting, an unexpected early answer to every parent’s most pressing question: Will my kid turn out okay? Ned is a challenging child, with a fierce intellect, intense emotions, and boundless energy. As if that weren’t enough, he also possesses a deeply contrarian streak, a shortage of impulse control, and a secret sensitivity. It’s a volatile mix, and so we worry constantly. I worry and worry and worry about the effect that our seemingly endless corrections and admonishments will have on his self-esteem, about his ability to forge relationships with others, and about his prospects for discovering a productive use for his many gifts. Many times, in the throes of some behavioral crisis or another, I have wished for a glimpse into his future, even for five minutes, just to have some slight assurance that we weren’t going to blow it completely.

           And suddenly, out of the blue, it was coming toward me in full living color, as revelatory as a Virgin on a Bosnian hillside. I finally broke my stare, and trained unseeing eyes on the ground. But as the couple passed, I swear I felt the warmth of the young man’s affection for his companion wash over me, incidental and yet as intimately familiar as a pair of arms stealing around my neck, a warm little body leaning into mine, and a half-whispered “I love you, Mom.” Even as my throat constricted and my vision blurred, for one suspended moment my heart was completely and utterly at ease.

Leslie Watson is a freelance writer in Northeast Minneapolis.  When she’s not reading tea leaves and peering worriedly into crystal balls, she can be found online at www.thebusypen.com.