I Called Him “Son”

When I was a teen in Munster Hamlet, Ontario, I discovered my mother’s box of her ancestors' photos. I was drawn with an inexplicable intensity to a photo of Laddie Millen, my great-uncle, who died in WWI. That connection to him, that obsession really, was one I felt for the rest of my life. There was something about his eyes. The depth. The sensitivity I sensed there. The integrity. The vulnerability. The youth. The fact that he actually existed on this earth, and then suddenly, he didn’t. How could that be possible? He’d been so alive! My connection to Laddie may have been why I was drawn to genealogy to begin with.

I immediately felt an affinity with Isobel, his sister, my grandmother, but I never realized I would later be able to commiserate more with his mother, Grace.

We’d both had premonitions of our sons’ deaths.

On the 23rd of March, 1945, my great-grandfather, Ernest Millen, Laddie’s father, wrote a speech for the Men's Club, at Daytona Beach, Fla.

The first world war brought its burdens to us for our eldest son "Laddie" enlisted early in 1915 and Leslie, our second son, in September of the same year. Laddie sailed the 30th of May 1915 and we saw him off with sorrowing hearts, but I never knew until the news of his death in action came on the 19th of February 1916 that his mother never expected to see him again. What occurred was this – returning about midnight, my dear wife felt very sad and read the page for the day from “Daily Help for Daily Need” and this is what she read from II Mac.VI:31, “And thus this man died, leaving his death for an example of a noble courage and a memorial of virtue, not only unto young men but unto all his nation.”

Just think of her fortitude in keeping this added sorrow to herself – truly, she was a Spartan mother.

I had the same premonitions as my great-grandmother, though I would not call myself a “Spartan mother.”

In May, 2025, my beautiful boy, Sam, returned to Canada and “allowed” me to see him twice before returning to Thailand, where he was planning to live, never to return home. He’d only come back to sell his condo at SFU and his Tesla, and to put stuff in storage (I’m still searching for the possible storage container). I hadn’t seen him in months, and that had only been briefly. He’d cut most of his friends and family off by then; I was the only one he sporadically stayed in touch with. His mental health was declining. Sometimes he'd apologize for being a shitty son and would tell me he loved me; other times he told me, “Our values are too different, I have to block you. Good bye.”

Fuck. That was hard. That was a physical pain. A severing.

That May, Jenna and I first saw Sam in Squamish. He let me take photos of him with Jenna. Then him with me. And him with Juno. When I said good bye to him, I held everything in until he was gone, and then I broke down. I sobbed, knowing I’d never see him again. Knowing I was saying good bye forever to my boy. I don’t like to sob in front of my daughter. I’m trying to respect her boundaries. I’m trying to be the parent. Not the child. But I’m human. I’m limited. And sometimes the feelings overwhelm me. This is what I tell myself.

But it wasn’t forever. A few days later, Sam let me come to Burnaby with Jenna to visit him, at his place at SFU, which had just sold. All my premonitions of having said my last good bye were just bullshit. My boy was fine. My boy would be fine. This was not a forever good bye. My intuition was fucked. I was just being dramatic. As always.

At his condo, Sam showed us the notes he’d taken in his Thai classes. We made him speak Thai to us. “Say, ‘My name is Sam,’ in Thai!” “Say, ‘How are you?’ in Thai!” “Say, ‘I love you, please don’t leave me! Please don’t kill yourself!’ in Thai!” I didn’t say that last one, but I did say, “If you need me, just call me. I’ll jump on a plane. I promise. I’ll come to Thailand. I’ll be there for you.”

He scoffed at that. Of course. “Mom. I’m fine. Don’t worry.”

I can still picture his white expensive suitcases, lined up and ready to go. I did not know that a few months later they’d be in my TV room, full of his underwear and t-shirts. And he’d be gone.

We dropped Sam off at a Tesla dealer to collect his money from the sale of his car, and in the parking lot, I said good bye. Again. This time, I said something I’ve never said before. I used a word I’ve never used before. A word I remember my mother using with her son. I remember her reaching for him. Like I reached for Sam. I was always reaching for Sam.

We were off Boundary Road, in a nondescript, urban, nothing place. A fucking parking lot. Sam didn’t want any theatrics. He just wanted to leave. He just wanted to get the money for his Tesla. But my middle name is theatrics. As is Sam’s. I put my hand on his face. He let me. He didn’t stop me. He let me put my hand on his face and hold it there. I didn’t cry. I just put my hand on his face. My hand was on my boy’s face.

And I called him “son.” I don’t know what else I said. I just know I called him "son." For the first time in his life. For the first time in my life. It just wasn’t something I called him.

But I called him "son."

Because I knew he wasn’t coming home. I knew, like my great-grandmother knew, saying good bye to Laddie, that I would never see my son again.

So I had to call him "son." To acknowledge that he was my son. That he had come from my body. That we were one.

That I had been his mother for this brief time on earth. Thirty-four years.

On her birthday, Feb 15, 1917, my grandmother, Isobel, was volunteering in Labrador and wrote in her diary: "I know Mother has her gift at home for me – a beautiful picture of Lad."

  In 1917, my great-grandmother, Grace Millen, gave my grandmother, Isobel, a framed photo of her younger brother, Laddie, after his death. 110 years later, in 2026, I gave my daughter, Jenna, the great-great-granddaughter of Grace, a photo of her younger brother, Sam, after his death. The boys have an uncanny resemblance to each other. The way they hold their mouth. The shape of their face. Their eyes. Their calm in the face of horror. For Laddie, the horror of war. For Sam, the horror of mental illness. Of bipolar disorder. Of ADHD.

I gave Jenna the photo I thought she loved of her and her brother, but she'd already framed that particular photo and wanted a different photo. One of her and her little brother when they were about five and eight. Sam's head is turned upward, looking at his big sister. With love. With admiration. With forever-ness. In the photo he's just a little boy. With his whole life ahead of him. With a family who loves him. With hope of a normal future. With no idea of what is to come.

My grandmother's framed photo of her brother, Laddie Millen. Jenna with Sam.

Sam and Jenna

My last photo of Sam with Jenna