But bring it home? What will I do with it then? It’ll just end up in the old cedar chest, stale and forgotten. For me, the joy of the quilt was in its creation, not in having it. But that doesn’t mean Molly’s obligated to drag it around.

The last thing she needs is the smothering burden of this blanket I’ve patched together, covered with messages from the past. She wants to create her own story, in her own way, on her own blank canvas.

That’s the daughter I raised.

Chapter Fourteen

Fourteen

“Then…” I shove my hands into the back pockets of my jeans. “I guess I’d better hit the road.”

Alarm flashes in Molly’s eyes. It’s finally real to her. I’m leaving, and she’ll soon be all by herself. But she visibly conquers her fear, squelching panic with steely resolve, evident in her posture and the set of her jaw. “Okay,” she says. “I’ll walk you downstairs.”

I turn to conduct one last survey of the place that will be her home for the next year. The room isn’t ready. The furniture arrangement isn’t ideal. The bookcase is too close to the radiator, and there aren’t enough outlets. With every fiber of my being, I want to stay here and fix things, make adjustments, improvements. I force myself to turn away.

The hallway smells of bleach and fresh paint. Someone is mopping up a spill on the floor. Other parents and kids are moving in, some in weighty silence, others with caffeinated chattiness, a few engaged in low-voiced arguments.

“You’re not going to lose it, are you, Mom?” Molly asks.

“Yes,” I say. “I might.”

Molly looks startled. She’s used to being protected, shielded, having troubles glossed over and smoothed out so they don’t snag on her. But as she pointed out to me earlier, she is a young adult now, old enough to know her mother is not infallible. She swore she didn’t need me running interference for her at every turn.

“Check it out,” she says, bracing her hands on the windowsill. A cluster of students has gathered in the old yard below. “I think that’s the meeting point for the orientation groups. It’s geeky, but I kind of want to go.”

We step out into the sunny afternoon. I feel a piercing sweetness deep in my heart. A barely dammed river of tears pushes against my chest.

“If you cry,” Molly warns, “I’ll cry, too.”

“Then we’ll both cry.” And we do, but somehow we manage to stop, regaining control by focusing on the long line of departing cars.

“I’ve got that orientation meeting,” she says, pressing her sleeve across her eyes.

“And I need to get going, too. Maybe miss the traffic heading out of the city.”