I stand next to the car, stuffed to the gills for its far-flung trip, and pose with my firstborn before she drives away from her home and mother. It seems an impossible plan given all those years of pressing my cool hand to her hot forehead and straining to see her across a schoolyard.
You’d think I’d be used to it, that I’d have become inured to its injury. But the other thing is truer. I’ve become inured to the idea that they’ll ever be gone for good, I’ve lapsed into self-deception about the enduringness of their company. I’ve convinced myself the inevitable isn’t so. Until it does. And all their declarations about new freedoms, all their pride in their progeny’s triumph, even their sincere plans for the next stage notwithstanding, all women are devastated then. Every last one of us feels this astonishing human development as counterintuitive.
Because here’s the thing in that maternal city. Even when it empties out, it’s a furnace. Motherhood endures. It survives age and experience and, most shocking, the requirement to relinquish to the cold, rudderless world the person you created and loved, who gave you identity and joy.
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