LEAVING HOME

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LEAVING HOME

In the summer of 2005 my daughter, Taylor Behl, seventeen years old and achingly beautiful, was getting ready to leave for college. She was only going as far as Richmond, Virginia, less than two hours from our home in Vienna, but I felt as if I was losing her forever.

Taylor, on the other hand, was bursting with excitement, and I managed to be excited for her. Still, deep down, I couldn't believe this was really happening. A week before she was scheduled to leave, I spent an entire day crying in my garden. It was the kind of crying where you can't catch your breath, the kind that just won't stop.

Parents go through this every year, I told myself. Kids grow up. They go to college. You should be happy. It's a good thing. But I couldn't shake the sad feelings. I knew they were compounded by the fact that I was a single mother, and that Taylor was my only child, but

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I realized that this didn't make me unique. All parents went through it. We all wondered whether we'd done a good job of preparing our children for the road ahead. We all hoped for the best. We all worried.

In my own case, however, the anxiety seemed a little excessive. I'd always been a calm, levelheaded person, and this wasn't like me. I found myself contending with frequent optical migraines, along with the occasional panic attack, and every day seemed to bring fresh waves of anxiety.

I asked myself, Is this some kind of mother's premonition? My sixth sense?

One afternoon Taylor came home with a girl she knew from the local Starbucks, where they both worked, and suggested that I have her move in with me. "That way you won't be lonely when I'm gone," she said. She also made a habit of reminding all our adult friends that they had to look in on me from time to time. "I don't want to have to worry about Mom being lonely," she told them. And when I took her to see her pediatrician for one final check-up before school, she had this say: "I'm really excited about going off to college, but I don't like the thought of Mom home, alone."

"Honey, don't worry about me," I told her, laughing it off. "I'll be fine."

"But I do worry about you," she said. "I can't help myself." I could feel the blood rushing to the back of my throat. "I love you," I said. "Love you more," she replied. On August 20 Taylor and I loaded both of our cars for the short drive to Virginia Commonwealth University, in the heart of

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Richmond. We were going to spend the night in a hotel, get her settled into her dorm early the following morning, and I would then make the drive home without her, and without crying. We made good time, checked into our hotel, and parked our cars in the underground lot.

At dinner, I found myself staring at her across the table. "What?" she said, smiling her bright smile. "Nothing," I said. I couldn't believe it: My little girl, almost all grown up. Where had the time gone? I had been Taylor's mother for seventeen years, and I would continue to be Taylor's mother, but my role was being sharply redefined. Who was I going to be without Taylor? I felt suddenly diminished, a lesser version of my old self, and I realized that I already missed her. I couldn't let it show, however; I smiled till my jaw ached. After dinner, we decided to wander around the university to try to sneak a look inside her dorm. I had never been to the campus, so everything was new to me, and I liked what I saw. I began to feel more optimistic. This really was a good thing. Everything felt right. The night was clear, and not too warm, and the streets were filled with young, hopeful, wholesome-looking kids. Maybe some of them would become her new friends. When we arrived at Taylor's dorm, one of the resident assistants (RA) was kind enough to show us to her room. It was small, designed for two people, and there was a tiny bathroom that separated it from a second, similar room. Taylor would be sharing the first room with a girl named Emma Ellsworth, whom she'd already met online. Emma happened to be an old friend of one of Taylor's

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closest friends, Glynnis Keogh, and I thought that was a good sign. She would be starting college with a solid connection to her life back home, and it would make for an easier transition.

"Tomorrow's going to be a madhouse," the RA told us. "If you want, you can move in tonight."

"That's a great idea!" Taylor said. We returned to the hotel, got into our cars, and drove back to the dorm. It was a big, sweaty job. Taylor's room was on the third floor, and there was no elevator. Plus, she had brought tons of books, mostly classics, which was appropriate, I guess--she was there to study--but which were certainly tough on our backs. We made her bed with her new sheets and her new comforter. Put her new towels in the bathroom. Hung up all of her new clothes. Set all her toiletries where they belonged. Even got her printer up and running. When we were done unpacking, we went back to the hotel and collapsed, and the next day we got up, had breakfast, and returned to the dorm to meet some of the other students. Emma had already come and gone, but the two girls in the adjoining room were busy unpacking, and we introduced ourselves. I had made brownies for Taylor, and she shared them with the girls and their families. They seemed like very nice people. The girls were best friends from Woodbridge, Virginia, and their parents knew each other. We exchanged numbers and e-mail addresses and promised to get in touch. At that point, there wasn't much left for me to do, and I got the impression that Taylor was eager to start her new life, so we wandered back to her room.

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"Are you going to be okay?" I asked her. "I'm going to be fine, Mom." She looked a little sad, but I knew she was going to be all right, and I also knew it was time to go. I hugged her and kissed her and promised myself I wouldn't cry. I didn't have any tears left anyway--I had spent all of them in my garden--but I must have looked as if I was on the verge of tears. "Oh Mom," Taylor said, "I am so sorry. Are you okay?" "I'm fine," I said, and I gave her a big smile. "I want you to have as much fun as you can, but make sure you get good grades." "I will," she said. "Which part? The `fun' part or the `grades' part?" I asked. "Both." She smiled. She looked confident and happy and excited about the future, ready to start her new life as a college co-ed. I took her face in both my hands and stared at her. I think I was looking for a sign that she might not be ready, any little thing, so that I could take her back home with me. But she was ready, so I gave her a big kiss and turned and walked away. I didn't even cry. I got in my car and drove to Roanoke, to look at a duplex that I'd been thinking of buying as an investment property. I didn't have any money to speak of, but I was hoping to use the equity in my townhouse for something with income potential, and I had a friend in Roanoke who said he'd be willing to manage the place if the sale went through. I met with the realtor, took a quick tour of the duplex, and drove home. Three days later, Taylor called to tell me that she had strep throat and that she'd been put on antibiotics. She also told me that

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