When She Leaves

Since she was about knee high, my oldest daughter has spent a week or so with her dad every summer.

At first, she could only go for a few days at a time, and those early trips were hard for her. There were tears and long phone calls home, and they were difficult for me too. Transitions were not her strong suit, especially at that age, and being away from home felt overwhelming. Those weeks never felt like vacations to me. They were simply something we all learned to navigate together.

By the time she was around five, she was able to travel for a full week. Even then, the nights were hard. She would call me before bed, quietly, trying not to disturb anyone, her voice heavy with emotion. Even at such a young age, she was thoughtful and sensitive, aware of the feelings of the adults around her.

I’ve carried plenty of guilt over the years. Because of choices I made, this was part of her childhood. While time with her dad was never meant to feel like punishment in any way, for a young child who struggled with separation, it sometimes felt heavier than it probably needed to be. I tried to remind her, and myself, that being loved in two homes can still be complicated when you’re little.

This particular week of the year has always been one of my least favorites.

When she was an only child, her absence felt strange and quiet. Being her mother is such a core part of who I am that when she wasn’t here, something felt off. After her sister was born, those weeks became even harder. Life continued while she was gone, and I knew she was missing moments at home. Before leaving, she would kneel down next to her sister and whisper, don’t grow while I’m gone.

Every July, I prepare myself quietly. I plan a favorite meal for the night before she leaves and another for the night she comes home. Spaghetti and meatballs with garlic bread before. Shepherd’s pie when she returns.

When she was younger, we would go over the packing list her dad sent and pack her suitcase together. We wiped away each other’s tears and made hopeful promises that the week would go quickly.

In the days leading up to it, we hold hands a little longer, hug a little tighter, and say I’m really going to miss you whenever we can. The night before she leaves, we have a sleepover in my bed. My husband kindly gives up his spot so the two of us can read together. Junie B. Jones turned into Judy Blume, which eventually turned into Us Magazine. Sometimes we play with each other’s hair. Sometimes we paint toenails or share Ranch flavored Pringles. Mostly, we just sit together, quietly.

Without her, our family feels incomplete, like a puzzle missing a piece.

As I write this in the early morning hours, she’ll be leaving in just over four hours to spend a week in a cabin in the woods with her other family. While she sleeps, I smooth her hair, rub her back, and try to take in these last moments.

This beautiful, infuriating, wonderful, frustrating, loving adolescent takes a piece of my heart with her every time she goes, whether it’s across state lines or much farther.

I am going to really, really miss her.