“You know, the one who did all the illustrations of kids fishing and families praying,” I say. “He did the cover of the Saturday Evening Post for years. That was even before my time, but you saw those illustrations everywhere—calendars, greeting cards, posters, dentist’s offices.”

“I guess.”

“Maybe we could drive over there, check out the place where he created his art.”

“Let’s not.” She speaks quickly. Maybe there’s an edge of urgency in her voice.

I let the topic go. “I’ve got one thing to say about grinders and frappes, or frapp-ays, however you say it.”

“What’s that?”

“They rock.”

She nods in agreement. The homemade bread and exotic cold cuts—olive loaf, dry salami, maple-smoked ham—and tart dressing and relish are delicious. I tell myself I can start my diet when I get home.

It’s too nice a day to hurry. Molly decides to take a walk, her euphemism for going somewhere private in order to call Travis. I doubt she’ll get a cell phone signal here, but I don’t say anything. Instead, I pull out the quilt and jab my needle into the fabric, piercing through all the layers. The quick silver flash travels fast, but not fast enough. Bit by bit, I am coming to realize that I have failed. By the time we get to the college, the quilt still won’t be finished.

Feeling unsettled, I watch Molly walking down the road, hands in her back pockets. Suddenly she looks very small and alone to me, and the urge to protect her—from what? Who knows?—rises up strong in me. Soon I won’t be around to protect her. But she has to go.

And as for me, I have to let her. After that, I have to figure out how to be my own person again.

“What’s that look?” Molly asks, returning from her walk and sitting beside me at the picnic table.

“I don’t have a look.”

“Come on. Spill.”

“Just thinking of this huge change. It feels so sudden.”

“It’s not like we didn’t see it coming.”

“I know. And this is what I wanted. I wanted to raise a child. And I did, I raised a wonderful child. But now you’re leaving.”

“Mom.” She offers a sweet, ironic smile. “That’s the whole point.”

“Well, I just wish someone had told me how hard it is to let go.”

“Did you think it would be easy?”

“Of course not.” The needle darts again, in and out of the quilt.

“A little bird once told me you shouldn’t avoid doing something just because it’s hard.”

My exact words, only I’d probably said them to her in order to get her to go off the diving board or eat a portobello mushroom.