Last fall, my mom and I went on a college tour. It was about what I’d expected: an enthusiastic student, currently enrolled, walked us around campus, pointing out landmarks and bestowing us with breathless stats of everything the school had to offer.
I could see myself there.
Walking along the pathways strewn with the bright reds and oranges of fallen autumn leaves.
I could see myself living in the sleek and modern dorm building and eating in the dining hall.
I could see myself crossing campus to get to the pool, before the sun came up, for a morning workout. And heading to class afterward with wet hair and coffee.
I could see myself sitting in the back row of a lecture hall for an English literature class or in the front row of a biology lab.
I could see everything in such clear focus that my body buzzed with the excitement of it all.
We met the water polo coach, who seemed enthusiastic about my high school athletic career. They told me to stay in touch and that they’d try to catch one of my games in the upcoming season.
I was so taken with the campus, with the vibe and the energy and the students being free and on their own.
“Can I get a sweatshirt?” I asked my mom. “From the student store?”
“Sure.”
At the store, we sifted through sweatshirts, so many different designs for one college, and picked out one that felt classic. Timeless. I had the clerk at the register cut the tag off for me so I could wear it home.
When we got back to the car, my mom was slow to start the engine. She simply sat and looked out the window at the crowded parking lot. At the buildings in the distance. And the students walking by.
I was sold.
Cal was where I wanted to be.
My mom gripped the steering wheel, still not starting the car.
“Mom?” I asked. “Are we going to sit here all day?”
When I looked closer, I saw that her eyes were shiny. Her quiet took over the car. It was too much. Too silent.
“Mom?” I said again.
She swiped at her eyes. “Yeah. Yes.”
“What’s wrong?” I said.
“Nothing.”
She started the car. It grumbled. Like it didn’t want to leave, either.
My mom looked over her shoulder, ready to back out, but settled her gaze on me as the car idled in its parking space. I noticed a student in a beat-up maroon Toyota waiting for our spot, their blinker flashing in order to claim it.
My mom pressed the palm of her hand to my cheek and said, “All your life, I’ve been working on preparing you to be ready to go. But maybe I should’ve been preparing myself.” Her voice faltered. Her lip wobbled. “You’re leaving. And I won’t be coming with you.”
“Mom—”
“It’s okay, Ruby. It’s how things are meant to be. I love you and I know you’re going to be okay. And I’m going to be, too. But I’ll miss you a lot and I’m going to be a little sad. What can I say? I’m a mom. It’s what I do.”
“I’ll miss you, too. I will.”
She smiled. “Oh, sweet girl, no, you won’t. You won’t have time to miss me. But that’s okay.”
The driver of the maroon Toyota honked their horn, making my mom and me jump in our seats.
My mom checked her eye makeup in the rearview mirror, swiped at the black smudge of mascara that had leaked from her lashes. And then she put the car in reverse and backed out. We didn’t say anything else as we drove out of the lot and onto the road toward home.
Quiet.
Together.