Last week marked the return to school for my children, and amidst the hustle of kids at the bus stop, I experienced a fleeting moment that went unnoticed by anyone but me. As children rushed to board the bus, my son and daughter were the last to ascend the steps.
“Hey!” my partner called out, his phone ready to capture one last snapshot. They both turned, and my daughter wore what I refer to as her “worried smile.” In that photograph, her gaze was fixed off-camera—directed at me. Just like that, my husband clicked the photo and she turned away, disappearing into the bus.
The other parents departed the stop, and my partner and I started our walk home. My instinct was to clutch my stomach and let out a wail, to collapse in tears. Instead, I moved silently, unable to share with him the thought that had suddenly crashed into my mind—I had fast-forwarded to the end of my life.
What lingered in my thoughts wasn’t merely that glance she gave me, for it was familiar. Rather, it was the realization that I was now acutely aware of how many more times I would witness that look in her eyes. It’s the expression that says, “I’m scared to leave you, but I must go now.”
I will see that look again when she heads off to college, and I will fervently wish for her to have a journey filled with meaningful friendships and personal growth, far beyond the distractions of parties and alcohol.
I’ll see it again as she walks down the aisle, hoping that the man she chooses is worthy of her love, a person who understands and cherishes her just as her father does. I will be ready to protect her fiercely, should he ever cause her pain.
And I will see that look again when she cradles her own child, praying that she trusts her instincts and doesn’t fall into the self-doubt I battled in my own life.
Finally, I will see that look when I am an old woman, and her fear will stem from seeing me as a shadow of the mother I once was. In those moments, I will wish for her to remember everything—the times I read her favorite stories until we memorized each line, the countless hours spent playing with dolls, the one-year obsession with naming every toy “Lily,” the way I let her adorn herself with Band-Aids as fashion statements, how I encouraged her to take ballet despite her fears, and how I always reminded her that she was intelligent and kind—not just beautiful.
I hope she remembers my unwavering support, how I could sense her emotions before she spoke, and that there once was a time when my strength allowed me to chase her with ease. I want her to recall how I sang and danced in the kitchen with her father, how she used to think I was beautiful, and how she once wished to stay with us forever. I’ll never forget the nights she cried in bed, worrying about the inevitable loss of her grandparents, and how I reassured her that such a time was far off.
As she boarded that bus, I was struck by a profound understanding: one day, if life unfolds as I hope it will, I will be the one gazing at the remarkable woman she has become, reflecting her fears back at her, wondering how I must say goodbye. Until then, I’ll cherish every moment and pray to remember it all.
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Summary:
As my daughter boarded the bus for school, I was struck by a mixture of emotions, particularly the fear of letting go that mirrored her own. This experience highlighted the fleeting nature of parenthood and the beauty of memories we create together. I reflect on the future milestones in her life, praying she remembers the love and lessons we’ve shared, even as she grows and eventually leaves home.