Last night started out like every other night.
I was in my room doing what I usually do before bed, watching a movie and winding down while the house settled into its nighttime quiet.
Then my daughter came downstairs. She stood in the doorway and said the simplest thing.
“I’m bored.”
That was the word she used. But when I looked at her, I could see something else sitting behind it. Her eyes looked a little too shiny, like tears were trying to form but she wasn’t quite ready to let them.
So we went out into the living room and sat down together on the couch.
For a moment we talked about nothing in particular. Then the tears came.
She started crying and said she didn’t even know why.
I told her that was okay. I told her she was probably feeling a lot of things all at once right now. She’s going to miss people. She’s excited. She might feel a little nervous too.
And sometimes when you feel all of that at the same time, the only thing your body knows how to respond with is tears, even if you don’t know exactly why.
So we sat there together for a little while and let that moment pass.
After a bit she said she was going to go back upstairs and see if anyone wanted to play Plato with her. So she went upstairs.
I went back into my room and turned my movie back on.
A few minutes later I texted her.
“Anyone playing?”
She wrote back that no one was available.
So I texted again.
“Pick out a movie, I’ll be up in a couple minutes.”
Those couple minutes weren’t spent getting comfortable.
They were spent in the kitchen.
I pulled the air popper out of the cabinet and started making popcorn. Because sometimes when something feels heavy and you don’t quite know what to say, popcorn helps.
When I walked upstairs to her room, I had my arms full. A pillow, a blanket, two bowls of fresh popcorn.
She looked up at me standing there in the doorway and asked, half curious, half confused,
“Are you sleeping in here tonight?”
The way she asked it almost sounded like she thought I might be fighting with my boyfriend or something.
I smiled and told her the truth.
“Because I’m going to miss you.”
She didn’t say anything after that.
She just scooted over and made space on the bed.
She had already picked out a movie, but we didn’t watch it.
Instead we ended up playing Plato together for more than an hour, Uno and Monopoly, laughing at ridiculous moves and trying to beat each other like we always do.
For a little while it just felt normal.
Eventually I tried to actually fall asleep on her mattress.
My back had other plans. Two herniated discs that like to give a random attitude since 2017.
Her mattress has always been brutal on my back, and she knows it. After a while I tried to roll over and get comfortable, but it just wasn’t happening.
She looked over at me and told me I didn’t have to stay if my back was hurting.
There wasn’t any disappointment in her voice, just understanding. We’ve had many tries and fails over the past couple years with having a sleepover on her bed.
She knows that mattress kills my back.
But I think she also knew why I had tried.
And I think she was grateful for the almost two hours we spent up there together, just laying there, playing games, talking, being in the same space… even though the whole time my back was quietly reminding me that this was a terrible idea.
After a while I rolled over, gave her a hug and a kiss, and told her goodnight.
I tried.
Because somewhere in the back of both of our minds we knew something about that night was different.
It was the last one before she leaves for Hawaii.
Morning came a little too quickly.
She slept until a little after eight, and when she came downstairs the first thing she wanted to do was start playing Plato again.
So we did.
Another round of Uno, another round of Monopoly.
I was more than happy to keep the games going.
After a while I asked if she wanted breakfast.
“Pancakes,” she said without hesitation.
So we went into the kitchen together.
She helped me get the griddle set up, grabbing things from the cabinets and the fridge while I mixed the batter. We stood there side by side while the pancakes cooked and the kitchen slowly filled with that warm, familiar smell.
I sliced strawberries onto her plate.
She grabbed the tongs and took on the bacon, flipping each piece carefully, almost delicately, still a little cautious of the grease popping in the pan. But she has come a long way in the past year when it comes to cooking.
I don’t eat pork, so I just put a couple pancakes on my plate and joined her at the table. I don’t typically eat breakfast, my breakfast comes in the form of hot water poured over coffee grounds, but this was a moment I didn’t want to miss out on.
We sat there eating breakfast and talking about everything and nothing at the same time, the kind of conversation that drifts from one topic to another without any real destination.
For a little while it just felt like an ordinary morning.
But the kind you quietly wish you could slow down.
At one point she ran upstairs for a few minutes while I stayed in the kitchen washing the dishes.
The house was quiet except for the sound of the water running in the sink.
That’s when a few tears finally came out.
Not big dramatic crying, just enough to release the pressure building behind my eyes.
I dried my face with the dish towel, took a breath, and by the time she came back downstairs I was smiling again.
She deserves to be excited about this.
At some point I asked her to text her dad and confirm what time he was picking her up.
By then it was getting close to 10:30.
She wanted to keep playing more games, but I told her I needed to charge my phone and take care of the dishes from breakfast, the pancake bowls, the plates, and the popcorn bowls still sitting from the night before.
Time had started moving faster than I wanted it to.
It always does when you’re trying to stretch it.
She came back a few minutes later and said he would be here between 12:30 and 1:00.
Then she gave me that look and said,
“You know that means 1:30.”
Because we both know.
He couldn’t be on time if you paid him to be.
So we laughed a little about that.
Even in moments like this, there is still room for small bits of humor.
At one point I went out to the car and grabbed my wallet.
Inside were the only two bills of cash I had left.
A twenty and a ten.
I came back inside and said, “I have something for you.”
I handed them to her.
She looked down at the money and said thank you in the sweetest voice. For a moment she just held the bills quietly in her hands.
Then she looked up and said,
“Wow… $30 is a lot, Mom.”
I smiled and told her, “This is for your adventure.”
You have a long trip ahead of you. Somewhere along the way you might stop at a rest area with one of those strange little gift shops in the middle of nowhere.
And when that happens, I want you to get something.
Then I remembered something else.
I went back through my wallet and found my Cash App debit card. I have the app but rarely use it, and the card mostly just sits there.
So we opened the app together and changed the PIN to one she picked.
Then I handed her the card.
She ran upstairs and came back down with a small wallet she had dug out of one of her toy bins.
It is one I gave her years ago.
Now it finally had a purpose.
Now I have a way to send her a little walking around money every now and then while she is out there.
I told her that once she makes some friends, there might be an ice cream shop nearby. Or a little corner store kids like to walk to.
And when that happens, I don’t want her to feel left out because she doesn’t have a few dollars in her pocket.
When she ran upstairs to grab that wallet, I stayed in the living room for a moment.
That is when the tears came again.
Just a few seconds.
Because I knew if she came back downstairs and saw me crying, it might take some of the excitement out of the adventure she is about to have.
And she deserves to feel excited.
A little while later we saw his truck pull into the driveway.
The moment had arrived in the quiet, ordinary way moments like that always do. No dramatic countdown… just a truck pulling in.
She gathered her things and we walked to the door together.
We always do exchanges the same way. Her dad and I don’t speak. We don’t look at each other. So the goodbye happens inside the house, right there by the door.
I gave her a hug and held it just a second longer than usual, not long enough to make it heavy, just long enough to memorize what it feels like.
Because I know it’s going to be a while before I get to hug her again.
Then she pulled away, opened the door, and walked out to the truck.
Just like that, the moment was over.
An hour earlier we had been playing games and making pancakes in the kitchen.
Now the house was quiet.
She’s only a few miles down the road right now.
But the adventure she’s about to begin will take her across the country, onto a plane, and eventually over the Pacific Ocean to Hawaii.
I held myself together all morning… but I don’t have to anymore.
Every time she left the room for a moment, I let a few tears fall and then wiped them away before she came back.
Because she deserves to feel excited.
She’s about to drive across the country for the first time in her life. The furthest she’s ever been before this was South Carolina last November when she went to see her brother graduate from Marine boot camp.
Now she’s about to see the whole country and then step onto a plane bound for Hawaii.
That’s an adventure most kids only dream about.
So I carried the sadness quietly this morning so she could carry the excitement.
And while she’s out there seeing the world… I will be right here, waiting for the day she walks back through that door.
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