I want to tell her not to go. I want to remind her not to talk to strangers and always travel in groups. I want to write her name on the inside of everything she takes. I want to follow the bus to the edge of the city limits. I want to keep her home with me but I can’t, I have to let her go.
When she was 5 years old I would drop her off early for school because I had to head to work. Her school was huge and it was usually dark when I dropped her off. She would fearlessly shut the car door behind her and I’d watch through the window as she made her way up the stairs to the cafeteria. Her backpack was bigger than she was and her pigtails would swing from side to side.
She was so proud of herself and had no idea that my heart was breaking into a million pieces.
I wanted to hold her hand and walk her up. I wanted to wait until the very last-minute, right before the tardy bell rang and then open the car door to send her on her way. I wanted to keep her home with me but I couldn’t, I had to let her go.
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