I hang up the phone. Something has happened to me over the days of our journey, a subtle shift in the way I see my daughter. She is smart, genuine and more mature than I’ve given her credit for. Trying to bend her to my will won’t work on her any more than it would have worked on me when I was her age. Dan tells me to back off. He has no idea how hard that is. With a heavy sigh, I pick up the quilt where I left off. My needle easily pierces through the layers of cloth and batting, soft beneath the pads of my thumbs. I work in a phrase my mother loved to quote: To thine own self be true.

There’s a dot of blood on the white underside of the quilt. I didn’t notice I’d pricked my finger. I grab an ice cube from the bucket I’d filled earlier and try to get the stain out. It dissolves to a faint rusty shadow but doesn’t disappear completely. A bloodstain never does.

After blotting the stain, I set the quilt aside. I don’t feel like quilting. I don’t feel like anything.

I lie on the bed, staring up at the pockmarked tiles on the ceiling. It’s getting late, but I’m not sleepy in the least. Is it my job as a mother to convince her to stay on track for college? No. It’s not. It’s my job to raise a daughter with an open heart and a good head on her shoulders.

It’s a balancing act. Love and dreams and duty. I pick up the quilt again, filled with the softness of memories. All the wisdom in the world is in this quilt.

I stare at it for a long time, wondering if there’s anything in it for me.

* * *

I wake up in the morning to discover a warm lump of girl curled up against me, under the quilt. She stirs and snuggles closer.

Other memories—all the mornings I awakened her, doing my best to soften the ordeal of getting up for school. I’d lie down next to her on the bed and rub her back until she surrendered to the day. Then I think about all the late nights lying awake, listening for the reassuring rumble of her car engine. We used to have long, whispered conversations when she came in moments after curfew, sitting on the side of the bed to tell me about her date.

Now I marvel at how tender I still feel toward this fully grown creature.

Oh, baby. I used to be responsible for drawing the boundaries around your world. Now you’re on a path that leads you over the boundaries and away from me. I’ll always cherish our time together. Always. But you’ll never be my baby again.