There is so much to say. And so I say nothing. There was a time when eighteen years felt like forever, or at least more than enough time to cover every possible topic, but I was wrong about that. I can only hope Dan and I equipped her to make the right choices.

I am amazed to feel something new. I don’t want to spout out any more advice or commentary. I want life to happen for Molly in all its pain and joy and richness, revealing itself moment by moment, unfiltered by a mother’s intervention. An unexpected, settled feeling creeps in. There are things she knows that will hold and keep her, whether or not I am there. Finally, I’m starting to trust that.

I want her to be on her own. This is what she is supposed to do. It’s the natural progression of things. Dan and I have given her everything we have. Now it is time for her to fly, seek new mentors, find her place in the world. I think about all the things that will happen to Molly. Things that will bring her joy and break her heart, make her laugh, cry, rage, exult. I wish I could protect her from the rough parts, but I know I can’t. And really, I shouldn’t.

The essence of life is the journey, unblunted by an overprotective parent. There is a richness Molly will find even in the deepest sadness. She has a beautiful future ahead of her. Sticking around, interfering and shielding her will rob her of something she needs to figure out on her own. I don’t want to stand in the way. Life as it unfolds is just too incredible.

She knows we will always be here for her. Our lives are forever entwined. And yes, she’s going to suffer a broken heart and face disappointment and make bad decisions and do all those other things we humans do, but she’ll survive them. She’s smart and big-hearted and deeply resourceful, probably more than I know, though on this trip I’ve seen glimpses.

“You’re going to be incredible,” I finally say. “I’m so happy for you.” I am, but I had no idea happiness could hurt so much.

This is it. This is really it. This is goodbye. Suddenly I don’t care that there are people all over the place, people who are going to be Molly’s friends and neighbors for the next four years. I take my daughter’s face between my hands and stare into the eyes I know so well, into a soul that is as bright and clear as the September sky.

She’s going to soar, I’m certain of it. Higher than she or I can ever imagine. “Goodbye, Molly,” I say. “Goodbye, my precious girl.”

Smiling mouth. Trembling chin. “’Bye, Mom.”