I kiss her soft cheek, and we embrace, a long strong hug, filled with the wistful scent of autumn and of herbal shampoo. “You are golden,” I whisper to my daughter, quoting one of our favorite songs. “You are sunshine.” We pull back, smiling, eyes shining.

“I’ll call you tonight, okay?” I tell her.

“That’d be great, Mom.”

One more kiss. A squeeze of the hands. With slow deliberation, I climb into the truck, roll down the window. We hold hands again while I start the engine. Then I put the car in Drive and let go. Our fingers cling for a heartbeat, then slide apart.

In the rearview mirror I can see Molly standing on the sidewalk, as slender and graceful as the turning trees of the old college yard. Golden leaves fly upward on a gust of wind, swirling around her lone form. My daughter stands very still, and just as the truck turns the corner onto the busy avenue, she raises one hand, waving goodbye.

Tapping the horn to acknowledge the wave, I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding.

I set the iPod to a mix of quiet songs. The first one is a classic, from my dating days with Dan. As the music plays, I head for the interstate, tears still escaping to soak into the neckline of my sweatshirt. I flex my hands on the steering wheel, set my jaw. So what if I’m crying. I’m the mother. I get to cry if I want to.

The traffic flows like a viscous liquid, undemanding, carrying me swiftly away from the city, the car a fallen leaf in a rushing stream.

As the city fades away behind me, I picture Molly in her freshly painted dorm room, unpacking her belongings, putting her new sheets on the narrow iron-frame bed, propping up snapshots of her friends and family, her dog and Travis, shelving books and supplies, plugging in the computer, organizing her things. Eventually she will come across the covered plastic box I filled with her favorite snacks—microwave popcorn, granola bars, Life-savers, pecan sandies, canned juices, cinnamon-flavored gum. Inside she will find a familiar note scribbled on a paper napkin: a little smiling cartoon mommy, with squiggles to represent the hair, and a message that will remind her of all the homemade lunches of her childhood: “I ♥ U. Love, Mommy.”

I think about giving Dan a call and I will, but not just yet. This moment is too raw, but it’s mine to feel—the bittersweet triumph, the sadness, the hope. On this leg of the journey, there will be no detour or scenic route as I make my way home.

Home, to Dan, who said he can’t wait to see me. Home, to a life that is open like the pages of an unread book. Yes.