This morning’s breakfast—the Bright Eyes Surprise, which I’d ordered solely because I liked the name—churns in my stomach. From the driver’s seat, Molly reaches over and turns up the radio. She glides into the passing lane to get around a semi with a tweeting cartoon robin on the side.

I refold the map to encompass the day’s journey. We plan to make tracks today, covering at least four hundred miles. The few towns along the way are no more than pinpricks with quirky names, like Nickel Box and Mulehorn and Futch’s Corner. Mostly, it appears we’ll be crossing uninhabited terrain, much of it protected by the Department of Natural Resources, shaded in green.

“Do we have plenty of gas?” I ask.

“Three quarters of a tank. Same amount we had the last time you asked, ten minutes ago.”

The biggest of the pinpricks, Futch’s Corner, lies at the halfway point. We’ll get gas there.

“I can’t decide whether to quilt or read,” I tell Molly.

“Why don’t you listen to music and look at the scenery?”

“I already did that.”

She laughs a little, shakes her head. “You always have to be busy doing something.”

“Nothing wrong with that.”

“Except you might miss something. Chill, Mom.”

“All right. I’ll look out the window.” The most interesting thing I spot is a red-winged blackbird in a thicket of cattails.

If I’m being honest with myself, there’s a reason for staying busy. Being preoccupied with other things means I don’t have to be preoccupied with my own baggage. I’m sick of myself, of my indecisiveness and mental whining. My daughter’s leaving the nest, as all daughters eventually do, and my job is to let her go and move on with my life. It should be a simple matter to set a goal for myself, one that doesn’t involve Molly, even indirectly. Maybe I don’t have a college degree, but I’m not stupid.

I know I have to figure out who I am again, now that I’m not Molly’s mom. Well-meaning friends tell me to go back to being the person I was before Molly. Am I that twentysomething woman who used to sleep late and smoke Virginia Slims and never felt the need to look at a clock?

That’s not me anymore. It can never be me again. I don’t want to go back to being that person who lived each day so thoughtlessly, spending the moments like nickels in a slot machine, as though she had an unending supply of time and could squander it any way she pleased.

Other friends remind me that my marriage moves to the front burner now. Dan and I will have to figure out how to be a childless couple again. What were we before we became Molly’s parents? What did we used to talk about, dream about, laugh and cry about? A better stereo system, a bigger house, an extra week’s vacation from work? How could those things matter now?

It was Molly who showed us the things that matter most. They’re the moments that sneak up on you unexpectedly, when you’re barely paying attention. You’re going out to see if the mail has come, and you discover that your child has learned to ride a two-wheeler and is as thrilled about it as if she’s learned to fly. Or you uncrate the new refrigerator you scrimped and saved for, and she shows you that the best thing about the new appliance is the empty box.