It was late in June when we noticed the twigs sticking out of the broken lamppost at the end of our walk. When we took a closer look, we discovered a bird's nest inside. It was too late in the season for a bird to lay eggs, we thought, and our friends, except for our newest neighbor, agreed. The new neighbor confidently said, "If she built it, she'll use it."

The nest, which was a mess, lay empty and waiting.

*    *    *

Upstairs, inside our house, is another nest, this one abandoned. It too is a mess. Empty gum wrappers and crumpled sales receipts litter the floor. The box spring stands empty of its mattress. Cardboard boxes and rolls of packing tape lie on a desk, a chair, and the floor. A phone, unplugged, lies on its side on a shelf.

At dinner, we told more friends about our discovery. They laughed because we were now reluctant to repair the broken glass and unwilling to even turn on the light in our lamppost for fear of harming any occupants. Our friends insisted it was, in fact, too late. They persevered that if there were no eggs by now, there would be none.

We prepared the next day to take down the nest. Steve set up the aluminum stepladder beside the lamppost. I held my breath as he climbed up and removed the cover with his screwdriver.

"Holy cow!" he softly exclaimed. "There are five eggs in here."

"Let me look" I whispered. I climbed up the ladder to peer inside: five tiny, light blue, speckled eggs lay deep in the center of the nest.

Back into the garage went the ladder. We assumed a huge, new responsibility. Careful not to turn on the lamp, we walked quietly in the darkness beneath it, and kept the cat indoors.

This whole operation felt strangely familiar to me. When I walked past the nest, I looked up at the window of my son's room and remembered the years when I had labored, like that other mother, to make a cozy and safe nest. I hung curtains, bought bed linens, a bookcase, a lamp. I cleaned his room, nagged him to clean it, and tried to teach him how. I bought him books hoping to feed his soul. When rocky times came, I tried to help him survive. I encouraged him to invite his friends home, gave them parties and bought cases of soda and bags of chips. I wanted to please. Coke or Pepsi? Cans or bottles? Ruffles or ridges? Plain or barbecue? Sometimes, I know, I tried too hard.

He started smoking cigarettes. I told him how it hurt to care for and protect his little body, and then watch him voluntarily inhaling poisonous gases. "What a pleasure it is, Mom, to be able to talk to you about this," he said. I wondered if I had done any good at all.

I listened when he talked about lost jobs, lost friends, and failing grades, and tried to offer solutions. I paid for college, for room, board and tuition, a fraternity jacket and ROTC boots.

After two years, he left college and returned to the nest. He worked and took classes while I tried to be supportive. Eventually, he was at home hardly at all, and when he was, he chafed at my questions. Anger surfaced whenever we met. Eventually, I told him it was time for him to leave. He found a place of his own, with a friend.

In the weeks after he left, the lamppost nest outside was all but forgotten. One afternoon, as I was pulling weeds in the garden, a small bird flew overhead. I saw her go into the lamppost carrying something in her mouth too small for me to identify, but which I knew had to be food. The eggs had been laid. Now they must surely have hatched. I wanted to get out the ladder again for a look, but was afraid I might scare the mother bird away.

Steve heard chirping one morning as he returned from the road with our newspaper. I heard it, too, coming from the lamp. We brought out the ladder again, quietly and carefully, and reverently removed the cover. Five little open mouths moved within five tiny beaks, on five tiny heads, eyes still closed. We quickly gave them back their privacy, kept the cat indoors, and bragged about them to everyone who would listen.

We felt like new parents again. We assumed even more responsibility. These little birds were hatched, hungry and helpless. I put out some thistle and a birdbath in the garden, and a pan of water near the nest. The mother was a tiny finch who flew in and out of the small opening in the broken glass. Soon, I saw a small head peering out of the opening after she had left.

'Yes!' I thought. 'We did it!'

A few days later, I spotted a very small bird, hopping and flying through the perennial garden below, --- one of the fledgling finches! They had survived the hottest, driest summer on record, with our help.

They are gone now, every last one. Last night we climbed the ladder again, and lifted their roof. The nest was empty, dirty and abandoned. It looked lonely there, so I took it down and placed it on the windowsill on our back porch. It's August and the "too late" babies are gone. So is their mother. And so is my son, from his upstairs nest.

Last night, when I passed his room, I stopped to look inside. A few of his things remained, tossed aside in his leaving, but it was as empty and abandoned as the finches' nest. I don't know how he will turn out or if he will reach his full potential. I don't know if I have done enough nurturing, protecting and teaching or too much. I don't even know if I pushed him out of the nest before he was ready to fly.

But then, I looked at the empty nest on the windowsill, abandoned by the mother finch because she trusted, as mother birds do, that her fledglings would fly. She won't blame herself if they fall or get eaten by the cat. Nor will she turn up to preen proudly when they fly to the highest branch.

*    *    *

Today, I moved the cardboard boxes and empty box spring from the upstairs nest to the attic. And I'm keeping the finch feeder and the birdbath filled.

Linda C. Wisniewski is a librarian who lives with her family in Bucks County, PA. A late bloomer, she went to her first protest march at 38, had her second child at 43, started her own business at 44, and published her first article at 50. She is an active member of the International Women's Writing Guild, and the Story Circle Network, where she facilitates an online group for women who are ready to tell their own stories.