The Last Bit I Walk Alone

The alarm goes off at five forty-five. I am not resentful. I am resigned. A new school year comes with new routines. I head downstairs to the kitchen with its warm yellow light and the new fan keeping the air moving. Before I know it, right behind me, Laddu comes bearing a hug. She helps me unload the dishes, waits patiently for her coffee, refuses to take Felix out.

On the kitchen hood, right above the stove, there is a post-it. It says “Laddu’s lunch” with a squiggly line, and “Maggi” and “Poppi” right underneath. I smile as I make it for her. I boil the water, put the Maggi in, then add extra water and pack it in her thermos so it stays hot and hopefully not cakey by lunchtime. In her lunchbox is her favorite lunch, Maggi, and a can of Poppi. Nothing nutritious whatsoever. There’s also a box of blueberries, because that’s consolation for me.

After she’s gone upstairs, I see the results, just as we’re about to leave for her bus stop. She’s posted a reel, a transition: glasses and a bonnet one minute, curly hair and a glowy face the next. And honestly, she’s radiating confidence.

I make her pose for photos outside the house: by the tree where I take pictures every year, by the side stoop and, again, by the front door. Then we walk. We walk and we talk. I ask her if she’s excited. I don’t even need her answer. I know she’s excited.

The bus trudges down exactly when it said it would, and Laddu is off, carrying her backpack and her lunch bag, her bestie by her side. I stand with the other mother at the bus stop. We chat about the beginning of middle school. We chat about friendships. And then we walk back home.

The last bit I walk alone. This moment should be bittersweet, my youngest growing up, going to middle school. But I’m excited for her, and I’m excited for me. This feels like the stretch where the arduous task of parenting, the physical act of parenting, is in some ways done. My youngest can help me with dishes, fold the laundry, take care of her own things, make her own schedule, keep a to-do list, check it off, earn money. She is in every way a mini functional adult.

The years ahead: the rest of middle school, then high school, and hopefully the older two making their way into the world as functional adults themselves. I might have a good twenty, twenty-five years left, and it’s filled with possibility. It gives me joy. It gives me pleasure, watching these children I have had the responsibility for, had the privilege of raising, grow into these fine young adults. I feel proud, and I know I have nothing to do with who they have become. And that’s the joy of it.

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