Because of COVID, the start date for Alex’s new job was delayed eight months, but when it finally appeared there might be a tiny window opening for her to leave for Japan, we had to keep our knees bent on the details. We did what we could ahead of time, but I had a sense that when the call came for her to go, it would be akin to a relay gun going off. And so it happened, as she texted me one lunchtime with negative COVID test results and a shaky question, “OMG, does this mean I’m leaving tomorrow?”

     My heart quickened but I was reminded of what I needed to do and how I needed to do it. In my Type Triple-A personality fashion, I asked if she wanted me to be her admin for the next twenty-four hours. She accepted. So from 1:00 p.m. Tuesday until noon on Wednesday, our hours were full of final errands and paperwork, ridiculously overfilled suitcases, soft words, and hard choices. She jokingly accused me of speaking in what she called my “counselor voice”—low, slow, and calm—and I admitted I was trying to keep our collective anxiety in check.

     Later that night, as James Taylor’s smooth baritone flowed from the computer speakers she’d gifted me, the music drew her downstairs to my office. As I turned to tell her how great the speakers sounded, she said, “I need a rubber band. And a huh-huh-huh-hug.” Then she started to sob. “I heard your music, and . . . and . . .”

     Oh, my sweet child—and you’re not going to hear it like this again.

     And things are changing in a seismic way.

     And this was always supposed to happen.

     And our hearts and eyes are spilling over.

     We made our way to the sofa and I drew her close into my right shoulder, pure muscle memory, the way I had through every shared grief, every shared fear, every shared hope. I stroked her hair, and I reminded her of all the things that led her to this moment, the brick-by-brick-by-brick God had laid out for her. It was going to be alright. It was going to be all right. For us both, this was the proper order of things—a long build completed, the finishing touches celebrated.

     When I finally got to bed, my thoughts drifted to the weeks prior to Alex’s departure and how my work with my counselor Christopher also was moving toward its natural end. One of my favorite Phoebe Snow songs, “I’m Your Girl,” had been playing on repeat in my mind. Written after her beloved mom had passed, she sang an ode to her mother-shelter, a poetic picture of the floors, ceilings, and hallways that contained their relationship and years. And so, in my mind, in that beautiful song, I shifted pronouns: You’re my girl. She’d been the reason for tending to my wounds; to not pass them along. The reason for building a better home; to give her roots and wings. The reason for spending the time; to focus the dozens of seasons, the thousands of days on growing and healing. I cannot say such words to my mother, but I can say them to my daughter—because of God. And by his grace and after receiving a whole lot of help, I became the kind of mom to whom Alex could say such things. And if that’s not some sort of reparational miracle, I don’t know what is.

     Leaving the house for O’Hare the next morning entailed checking and quadruple-checking, with wide eyes of disbelief and nervous laughter. I’ve made that drive a hundred times, but never with the weight of what awaited that day. Among the few good things that came from the pandemic was the fact that the departure drop-off area at O’Hare—one of the busiest airports in the world—was a ghost town. There were none of the tough, uniformed security officers barking, “I don’t care! Just move your car!” So we got to have our moment, unhurried.
     I held her as she cried, choked back my own tears, and reminded her again and again in crackly whispers that this was her doorway: She worked hard to find it, she was equipped to walk through it, and God had her back. Some guy out having a smoke took pictures for me, capturing our masks and our glossy eyes and her whole life stuffed into three suitcases and one bulging backpack. When I looked at those digital images later, I shook my head, incredulous: She did it! We did it! God did it!

     It's been suggested that part of being a good parent is being willing to cut the cord—cord after cord, again and again—at the right time. Standing outside the terminal, I recalled many lifelines that got us to that day and the one life-changing cord that awaited cutting with the utmost, tenderest love. And so, after one last squeeze, whispering momly reminders and gentle encouragement, I stepped back, caught her eyes, smiled behind my mask, and let her go.

*  *  *

Organizational psychologist Adam Grant writes, “Too many people spend their lives being dutiful descendants instead of good ancestors. The responsibility of each generation is not to please their predecessors. It’s to improve things for their offspring.” I pray I have done this well for her, and I marvel at what kind of hope Alex will extend, beyond her childhood home, beyond what’s held in her walls. All I know is I sent her off that remarkable October day with that covering, to dream and create her own abode, with God, with hope.
     Leaving home, grieving home, coming home, going home.
     Built strong, she’ll survive her storms. That girl’s got good bones.