My eldest child left home this week. It was a lot less dramatic than you might think.

Just as the act of birthing her was fraught with all of the emotion under the sun, but revolved in the moment around the contracting of muscles and the monitoring of heartbeats, so on Monday we moved furniture and boxes, panted, ached, and ate lunch.

She had some things to finish up, so she said she would follow me home.

By the time she was ready, I had been called to attend to the next child’s travelling needs, and while I was gone, her new life came and swept her away to Buffalo.

Of course, she hasn’t really lived at home, as such, for a while; but I felt a difference entering that empty room yesterday, with boxes to stack and store, to wait for her call. There was a falling away; the room had dropped its guard. I no longer needed to pause for permission to enter. She had moved on.

She was born for this: to find new love, seek out adventure and meaningful work, to forge for herself a life she can embody.

She said that she would like a new crockpot, one big enough to cook meals for the two of them. I hope I get the right one. It is my small offering to lay at her feet, of peace, of love, of faith in her future, because what more, now, can I do?