No, my daughter will not learn that love means waiting alone while someone important refuses to answer.
Years later, when Lily left for college, she packed the panda mug.
I objected immediately.
“That mug is practically an artifact.”
“Exactly,” she said, wrapping it in a sweatshirt. “It belongs in a museum of me.”
“It has a crack.”
“So do most important things.”
I had no answer.
Ryan came to say goodbye before we drove her to campus. He hugged her awkwardly but sincerely. Elise cried more than he did. Daniel brought a toolkit in case her dorm furniture needed “uncle-level intervention.” Eli checked the car tires twice.
At the curb, Lily hugged me last.
Not because she loved me most.
Because she knew I would have the hardest time letting go.
“I’ll call,” she said.
“You don’t have to call every day.”
“I know.”
“But you can.”
“I know.”
“Text when you get there.”
“Mom.”
“Right. Sorry.”
She smiled and pressed her forehead to mine.
“Promises count,” she whispered.
My heart folded and unfolded.
“Yes,” I whispered back. “They do.”
Then she walked into her dorm carrying two bags, one backpack, and a cracked panda mug wrapped in a sweatshirt.
I stood beside Eli, crying behind sunglasses that fooled no one.
