120 hours ago I left my only daughter on the steps of her dorm. While I knew this day was coming, I was unprepared for my heart to shatter the moment I turned to leave. Then when I turned back to catch one last glimpse, she wasn’t looking back at me, so my shatters shattered. I found myself in an unexpected mom abandonment situation. Rather than curl up and sob in front her her dorm where she’d be able to see me from her window, I opened my eyes as wide as I could, knowing that by increasing my eyeball surface area my tears would evaporate rather than run down my face. My huge eyes caught the attention of a mom walking into the dorm with her son. Empathy crossed her face, but I turned away. She, as a current active parent, couldn’t comprehend how I felt.

Shockingly, my body functioned even with a twice shattered heart so my husband and I found food to stave off starvation after our five hour move-in-athon. I say “my husband” because that’s the childless title. While I shoveled cheese curds, fries, and a sandwich into my mouth, I continued not blinking. I also attempted to cease breathing, so that the embarassing pre-sob breath hitches stopped escaping when my husband said things like, “It’s so weird. Like we aren’t parents anymore.” Obviously he wanted to watch me break down in public. There was no other reason for him to discuss anything other than the quality of his potatoes or the crispness of his toast.

We had plans to meet up with family after dinner. They have young children, and I was excited to warn them about the coming danger in their lives. (Their kids’ ages range from 7-12.) After sobbing into their chests I said, “Lock your kids in the basement now. Don’t let them come out. This is a terrible thing. Why would anyone ever want this?” My rantings were silenced when a large bowl of apple crisp topped with melting vanilla ice cream was shoved into my hands and I was led gently to the kitchen table. While dessert soothed my soul, I noticed they did nothing to avoid my pain and instead kept talking about middle school, elementary school, soccer practice, and fall baseball. In six years my “I told you so” is going to feel so sweet. Once it was bedtime, they sent me off to my hotel room to begin my new role as a virtual parent.

An abridged list of the texts from my daughter that first night:

While showering away the grime of moving and OH MY GOD THE LAST TOUCHES OF MY DAUGHTER’S HAND, wisdom came to me. Still wrapped in a towel I texted

• You know Maslows’s hierarchy of needs, right?
• (I inserted an image of his pyramid as a reminder)
• Your pyramid has been attacked at the base level.
• Your mind thinks — OMG! New place, new people, new environment! I’m not safe.
• For a week — focus on making sure you are safe and cared for. When you are starving you don’t need your favorite food. You need calories. When you are alone, you don’t need the perfect friend, you need acquaintences.
• Give yourself time to feel safe before you find yourself belonging.

(Note the generational text punctuation divide.)

My daughter replied, “Whoa that’s wise,” which is higher praise than I think I ever got as an in-person parent.

I spent the night in a hotel room with two people, instead of the three we’d had the night before. The next morning, my husband and I drove away from my daughter and toward our childless home. Already the conversation was changing. My texts complained about my husband’s stinky car burps and she mused, “First dorm shower done… It’s really odd to be naked and have shoes on.”

Now our relationship is based on random texts — why there was a communism poster on campus, how college boys fit so much food in their bodies and drink so much milk, pictures of pets from home, and bemoaning the water bottle lost on the second day of classes — and occasional FaceTime and phone calls. She’s doing great, even though she says she’s not, so I’m doing okay. I’m blinking again and breathing normally. Without any medical scans I can’t be sure, but I think my heart is mending too.