I look down at my KALE sweatshirt, which I bought as a gag, knowing that Isla would be wearing her YALE one today for the flight east. She’s refused to let any of us come with her, not even to the airport, because she says that will only make it harder. That this is the start—this moment—and she wants to prove to herself that she’s ready to go it alone from here.

I understand. If we came, there’d be more of that waiting that we’ve grown too used to.

It’s time for her to go.

She hugs my dad, and then Hudson, who got his one-year chip in June and has moved into the guesthouse for a while. I still worry about him—not sure how many chips he’ll need for that to go away—but I’ve also started allowing myself to like him again. She scoops up Fluffernutter, kisses him on his head, murmurs something in his ear I can’t hear.

When it’s my turn, Isla stands in front of me, the expression on her face the mirror of mine: a smile through tears. She puts her hands on my shoulders, like she’s the big sister about to dispense advice, not the other way around. I beat her to it, though, and start talking first.

“I love you and I’m so proud of you and I’m going to come visit soon whether you like it or not and, holy crap, Yale!” I say, because I’m swollen with pride for my sister, who did it, despite our parents, and also, of course, in part, because of them.

She tackle-hugs me.

“I love you too. Be good, okay?”

“I’m always good,” I say. Isla laughs and hugs me again and we sway that way for a few minutes, a back-and-forth rock, until she pulls away. I know my sister well, especially after all the time we’ve spent together this past year, and I watch as she begins to retreat. I can tell she’s moved on from goodbyes. She’s thinking about her Uber, and how long it should take to get to LAX during rush hour, and maybe texting her roommate, who got to New Haven already and claimed the left bed. I wonder if this is how things will be now that she’s leaving—if our entire adulthood will be one long goodbye to each other.