I came home the other afternoon, tired from a long stretch of errands, my arms full of groceries and my mind already jumping ahead to what needed to be done next. But as I turned the corner and stepped onto my front porch, I stopped cold.

There they were.

Shoes.

Not just a pair or two, not neatly arranged or thoughtfully tucked to the side, but a pile—a glorious, messy pile of sandals, sneakers, slides, and flip-flops, scattered across the steps and spilling into the walkway. I stood there and just stared at them, heart catching in my throat.

Because these shoes meant something.

They meant I had a house full of kids. Mostly teenagers. Full of noise and life and energy that filled every corner of our home.

These shoes meant it was summer—school was out, routines were loosened, curfews stretched, and time felt a little more forgiving. These shoes meant snacks would disappear faster than I could buy them, that the fridge was probably already half-empty despite the groceries I was holding.

They meant the air inside was thick with laughter, music, and half-finished stories shouted from room to room. It meant the sound of cannonballs in the backyard pool, the crash of air hockey pucks in the basement, movie marathons with lights off and chips everywhere.

These shoes meant we were the hang-out house today. Again.

I paused for a long moment before even opening the door. Because more than anything, these shoes stirred something deep in me—something tender and raw.

Some of these shoes have been on my porch for years now. Their owners have grown taller, their voices deeper, their jokes more inappropriate. Some of them have been on the same soccer teams or in the same classes since second grade. Some have dated, others have broken up. But they’ve all found their way back here, again and again, to sit around my table, to float lazily in my pool, to laugh on my couch like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

And now, nearly all of them have just graduated high school.

Which means that soon, these shoes will be scattered—not just around my porch, but around the country. Different cities. Different states. Different paths.

They say you only get 18 summers with your kids. Eighteen. It sounds like a lot when you’re holding their chubby toddler hand through the sprinkler or wiping popsicle off their face. It feels like forever when they’re learning to ride a bike or building forts with couch cushions.

But here I am, in the middle of number 18.

Eighteen summers. That’s all.

And somehow, impossibly, I’ve reached the last one.

The realization hangs heavy in my chest. I try to brush it away, to shake it off, but it lingers—like the late afternoon sun that refuses to dip behind the trees.

My head understands this is good. It’s what’s supposed to happen. Growth, independence, adventure. But my heart… oh, my heart.

My heart aches with the knowing.

Because I know next summer might be different. These shoes might not be back. They’ll be on college campuses, tucked under dorm beds or left outside new apartments. They’ll be out discovering the world.

And my porch might be quiet.

Empty.

So, I tell myself to be present. Right now. I tell myself not to let tomorrow’s sadness steal today’s joy. I take a deep breath and open the door.

Sure enough, there they are. My child and their friends, sprawled across couches and bean bags, someone halfway asleep, someone else deep into a playlist battle on the speaker. Laughter bounces off the walls. Someone yells that we’re out of chips. Again.

And I smile.

Because this? This chaos, this clutter, these kids—it’s everything.

So I’ll embrace it. I’ll buy more snacks than I ever thought possible. I’ll let them raid the pantry and crash in the guest room. I’ll make them pick up their towels and wipe their wet feet on the mat. I’ll pray each one gets home safe and I’ll keep the porch light on for as long as they need it.

But most of all, I’ll treasure this summer of shoes.

Because one day, the porch will be still. The house will be quiet. And I’ll miss the days when I tripped over size 12 sneakers just to open the front door.

So I’m choosing joy. Right here, right now.

Because this moment—it’s really, really good.

And it won’t last forever.