She walked into my office to make a prosaic point, to let me know: I'm approving your time-off requests!
Great, I say, thank you!
What are your plans? She asks, all normal-lite.
Whelp, you know, taking my youngest to see my oldest in NYC (because my middle will be in LA for a summer internship in post-production/her dream) and then a family wedding on the East Coast, followed by a college reunion in Chicago.
Are you taking your daughter back to college? (This seems like a Q-lite, but trust me when I tell you, it's not.)
That's the plan, I say, as tears surge up behind my eyes, pour forth and spill down my cheeks in record time.
Her only child (so far) is three years old. She understandably starts to back out of my office.
It gets easier, I want to tell her. But it doesn't. It gets harder AND better AND far more consequential.
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