Kindergarten Drop-off

“First day of kindergarten. The backpack is absurd — bigger than her whole torso, stuffed with supplies from a list that felt like a deployment checklist. You walk her in. The classroom smells like new crayons and industrial cleaner and anxiety, mostly yours. She finds her name on a desk and lights up. The small hand lets go of yours. Just like that. She doesn't look back. You stand there an extra second that lasts a year. Walk to the car. Close the door. Sit there. The car seat in the rearview mirror is empty in a way it's never been before. You are extremely fine. You are not fine at all.”