An empty nester, once again
Mother chokes back tears as her adult daughter prepares for life after college
My daughter and I were warming up at a coffee bar on a chilly afternoon. She sipped hot chocolate, a rare millennial who didn’t depend on java. She still drank chocolate milk at morning breakfasts together during the 10 months since moving back home after graduation.
Half of college grads depend on parental support for up to two years, and I joked sometimes about her “lease expiring,” even though I’d grown reaccustomed to her face, her jokes, her mess.
“I have news,” she suddenly announced. “Natalie’s moving in a few months. She asked me to rent an apartment with her.”
“I’m so excited for you!” I hoped she didn’t see through my best pretend smile. That night, behind closed doors, I was surprised to find myself crying into my pillow. I knew my young tenant had a temporary visa in her childhood bedroom, but I didn’t expect to go through empty nest syndrome twice. Once was bad enough. When Amy left for college five years ago, she was afraid of being homesick and I was afraid of missing her too much (turned out they were both true, but temporary). At the end of orientation, we both cried. So did my husband, even though he now claims that’s an alternative fact.
Some parents feel like crying when their kids unpack four years of dusty possessions from their dorms, unloading plastic bins of disorganized junk. I confess it was a bit of a rocky adjustment. She was moody at first, missing being able to walk down a flight of dorm stairs into instant socializing. My husband had taken over her bedroom and he had to squeeze his photography gear and computer back into our bedroom. We nearly needed a couples therapist to work out Photoshop time and sleep hours.
We put everything on the table like a union negotiation. We wouldn’t charge her rent while she was still eking out somewhat of a living as an hourly paid intern without benefits. She was welcome to make her lunches from anything in the fridge, but when out with friends she had to swipe her debit card. She did her laundry, pitched in with grocery shopping, washed dishes, bought her own clothes and solved our technology snafus.
“How does it feel to be back home?” I inquired.
She shrugged. “It feels like I’m still in college.” One weekend, my husband and I visited friends upstate. When we returned, Amy told us she’d entertained friends both nights. “It was like having my own apartment,” she said. “I wish you’d go away more often.” That hurt. But mostly we enjoyed each other’s company. As long as I didn’t point out that it might rain and she should take an umbrella. Or if I probed too deeply where she was going, with whom, when she’d be home.
I began to relish our reunited living arrangement.
I’d enjoyed watching her grow more mature with each year of college, but now, free from worries about mid-terms and will-I-everget-a-job-when-I-graduate, we were two adults. We debated politics and analyzed museum exhibits. When she broke into an impromptu silly dance while reading a recipe from my iPad, I boogied alongside her. I stopped asking why she never made her bed.
Just when we’ve gotten used to each other again, she’s about to leave.
Even though our cohabitation was never meant to be permanent, I was already regretting that we’d never have this special time again. What surprised me was how difficult it would be to let her go a second time. She would no longer be back home for summer vacation. I’d sent her off to college as a child who still needed and relied on my guidance. Now I was sending an adult into the world, the one I always hoped she’d be. There was even more to miss this time.
My husband will take down her framed pictures, leaving behind blank outlines in the lavender walls they painted together. He will hang them to launch her new life elsewhere. My husband will fill the empty space in her room again with his stuff, and I’ll cook meals without being her sous chef.
I expect to still burst into dance routines while making dinner, smiling as I imitate her kooky moves. And some mornings I plan to go really wild: I may not even make my bed.