After my husband died, my adult son called every evening. A year later his work became busier, and the calls became less frequent. I started inventing small problems: the television wasn't working, I couldn't understand a bank message, there was a strange sound in the kitchen.
Most of the problems weren't real. I just wanted to hear his voice without saying, "I am lonely." One day he came over with a notebook and patiently wrote instructions for everything I had been asking about. I felt terrible. I've stopped inventing problems now, but I still wish parents were better at admitting when they simply miss their children.