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The call came one Sunday evening in the spring. My son's weekly check-in from the West Coast.

"Hi, Mom, uh, guess what? The company's gone belly up. I'm thinking about heading back. I think I'll come home, OK?"

"Home" Chicago or "home" our HOME? I wondered. Panic set in.

"Oh," I started imitating static. "You're breaking up, son!" Again, me with the static. "Try calling back later!"

I needed time to consider this. Our home had been an empty nest for five years. No one coming in at all hours of the night, waking us up from a sound sleep to wonder: burglar or boy? No peculiar things in the refrigerator like kombucha, seitan and something called slippery elm bark. And no boat-size gym shoes being left in areas of the house where people were likely to breathe.

But what was I thinking? This was my son, my youngest. Matty - my little Matty-cakes. Of course, he could come home, and I told him that when he called back a little while later.

We've all seen those TV commercials of empty nesters. They stand on their front porches and wave, teary eyed, as their kids head off to begin their own lives. It's as fake as scrubbable wall paint and leak-proof diapers. But fast forward a few years as those kids do the unthinkable: boomerang. They come back. Researchers report 38% of 19- to 29-year-olds are living in their childhood rooms. It's called Cluttered Nest Syndrome and is attributed to the deterioration of employment opportunities. Or so they say. It's more likely the lure of free meals and Netflix.

A few weeks later, Matt came home and ground rules were established. No abandoning loads of laundry in the washer, no leaving stinky gym shoes -anywhere - and no loud comings and goings in the wee hours of the morning.

"Can't he just go in and out his bedroom window like he did when he was a teenager?" my husband asked. Great guy, my husband, but rules and discipline are not his strong points. He once punished Matt by leaving the sprinkles off his ice cream cone.

A few weeks into Matt's return, I noticed something had changed. The flighty kid who had gone off to California with only a plane ticket and my prayers had returned a mature, dish-doing, responsible young man. The only time I saw his gym shoes, they were on his feet. He still came in during all hours, but he did his best to be quiet. He vacuumed. Thoughts of Invasion of the Body Snatchers came to mind when I came home one day and found him washing the kitchen floor. Who was this person?

"It needed to be done," was all he said.

Fast forward six or seven months and the boy eventually did move out. He is happy in his Ikea-infested city apartment, the one with the unspeakable rent. He prides himself on not only his newly acquired impeccable cleaning skills, but his soft close kitchen drawers as well. I can remember a time when a drawer meant something. Nothing like slamming a drawer to get your point across. It's kind of like a good strong punctuation mark. Can't do that with a soft close drawer.

And if he ends up coming home again sometime in the future - so what. I'll just slam a drawer or two - just to show who's boss.

- Margaret Hopkins