“That information packet lists some local places to stay,” Molly points out. “I mean, if you don’t feel like a big drive today…”

“I’m kind of eager to head back to your dad and Hoover,” I tell her. What I don’t tell her is that I can’t face a night at the Colonial Inn with its stupid plaster lamplighters in three-corner hats, knowing Molly is only a short walk away. The temptation to go check on her would be too great and prolong the pain of separation. I plan to drive a couple hundred miles, take a long soak in the hotel hot tub, then phone Molly from a safe distance.

The breeze that sweeps through the quadrangle smells of autumn. A few yellow leaves flutter down with lazy grace. Students and statues populate the ancient, broad lawns laid out centuries before by idealists who embraced order and harmony.

The grassy yard is crisscrossed by walkways littered with new-fallen leaves. Long-bodied boys lie with their heads cushioned on overstuffed backpacks, their noses poked into dog-eared novels. Girls with sweaters draped over their shoulders sit cross-legged in small groups, engaged in earnest debate.

All up and down the street, there is the sound of car doors slamming shut, farewells being called out.

Molly and I walk to the SUV, which is now as empty as an abandoned campsite. My lone suitcase lies in the back alongside the parcel filled with my new clothes. I place the quilt back in its bag and set it down next to the glossy sack from the department store. The thing is coming home with me after all, it seems. Maybe I’ll finish it this fall.

“So, okay,” Molly says uncertainly. Her eyes dart here and there; she does not look at me. “Thanks for driving with me, Mom. Thanks for everything.”

“Sure, honey. Promise you’ll call if you need anything, anything at all. I’ll have my cell phone on, 24/7.” I touch her arm, feeling its shape beneath my fingers. Then I give up pretending to be casual. No point trying to minimize the moment. “Oh, baby. I’m going to miss you so much.”

“Me, too, Mom.”

Everything I need to say crowds into my throat—eighteen years of advice, guidance, warning, teaching. And it overwhelms me. It is too much…and not enough. Have I forgotten something important? Have I taught her to do laundry and balance her checkbook? To write thank-you notes by hand? Turn off the coffee maker when it’s done? To fend off a horny guy and to contest an unfair grade? To look in the mirror and like what she sees?