The first time I realised I might be different from other mothers, we were standing in a driveway on prom night.

Our children were dressed up, awkward and beautiful, posing for photographs before heading off to dinner. I was chatting with another mum about university plans, where her son was looking, where my daughter was considering.

She mentioned a school in Florida her son was thinking about, a local community college her daughter might attend. Then she said, almost wistfully, “Honestly, I hope they both decide to stay here. I’d be perfectly happy if they never left home.”

I remember nodding politely and thinking, why on earth wouldn’t they leave?

I love my daughter. Fiercely. I am proud of her independence, her ambition, her willingness to move eight hours away and build a life entirely her own. But I have never quite understood the desire to keep her close simply because it makes me feel better.

When her final year of school approached, other mothers spoke about the coming emptiness as though it were a tragedy. They asked if I was ready. If I would cry. If I would miss her terribly. I smiled and said I would miss her, which is true, but I did not feel devastation. I felt readiness.

I have always believed children are meant to leave. Not because we want rid of them, but because we have raised them to stand.

When the time came, we drove her up, helped her move into her dorm, and drove home. She was happy. We were happy. It felt exactly as it ought to. She has since chosen to stay at university over the summer rather than come home, and some people seem to expect me to be heartbroken about that. I find I’m not particularly. She is building her life. That is rather the point.

I did not build my entire identity around motherhood. I did not centre my world on her schedule or her presence. Even when she was young, I encouraged sleep-away camps and independence. She thrived. So did we.

I sometimes look at mothers who struggle enormously when their children leave and find myself quietly wondering about them. Whether they have poured so much of themselves into their children that they no longer quite know what they are without them. Whether they don’t entirely trust their children to get on without them. And for those who are married, I find myself wondering quietly about their husbands. Surely an empty house has its appeal.

I don’t say any of that out loud, of course.

Loving your child and being ready for them to go are not opposites. They can exist quite comfortably side by side. Pride does not always look like tears. Sometimes it looks like dropping them off, driving home, and feeling nothing but glad for them.

— Kate