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money. It seemed self-indulgent to spend our hard-earned money on classes like “Special Topics in Esoteric Cubism.”
    And then one day, after we’d been married a few years, the idea of getting a degree was taken off the table. We did use contraception, I swear we did, but mother nature and youthful zeal overrode the precautions. Along came Molly, the ultimate—and only truly valid—excuse for interrupting my education.
    I always meant to go back. Early on, I told my friends and family I planned to finish my degree once Molly was in grade school. Of course, by then I knew what all mothers learn when their kids go to school. Those hours are spoken for, too. They’re filled with everything else you put off when yourchild is young and at home, with that part-time job to give the bank account a much-needed boost. With Brownie projects and volunteer service. With taking care of that little female problem that’s had you so worried for so long. With adding on an extra bathroom to the house—she’s going to need that once she hits her teens, after all. Throwing in college-level courses simply seems impossible.
    Nobody was surprised when I dropped the idea. My parents were simple, honest people who expected their kids to live a good life. I hope I didn’t disappoint them.
    My departure from the nest was not the dramatic, long-distance leap Molly is taking. My first home with Dan was only eight miles from my parents.
    I wonder if they dreamed of a bigger life for me, if they wanted me to go further, do more. Probably not, I think, watching my needle flash through the fabric. I suspect they were perfectly content for their daughter to live close by.
    My friend Erin wears her hard-earned law degree like a badge of pride. I used to envy her—the big career, the big house, the big car, the big life. It all came at a price, though. There was a divorce; though she’s remarried now and loving her emptynest, there were hard years when she’d come over and cry from the sheer exhaustion of juggling everything. I came to understand that there is no such thing as a perfect life, just a constant shifting, like the wind on the lake. You adjust your sails to catch the wind, not the other way around.
    I often wonder, if I’d stuck with my degree program, would I have found my passion? That first semester, I floundered, unable make up my mind. I had friends who were so clear-eyed, wanting to be a kindergarten teacher. Or a CPA. Or a landscape designer. Not me. I never quite found the right fit. Skipping college, setting aside the thought of a professional career, turned out well for me. Life is good enough. We wanted more kids, but because of that female problem, which turned out to be not so little, it was not to be.
    As each mile brings Molly and me closer to goodbye, I realize how little I know about this rarefied world she is about to enter. I wonder if it will drive a wedge between us, turn her into a stranger to me, a sophisticated stranger with a big vocabulary and bigger dreams. There won’t be any three o’clock bell to start my world turning again. No swing to push in the backyard, no cookies to bake.
    What there will be is time. So much of it. All thetime in the world to figure out what to do with my life, now that I can do anything I want. This should not feel so fraught with uncertainty. Parents have done this since time immemorial. Fretting about it is silly.
    I’m not fretting, that’s the thing. I’m afraid.
     
    We argue about where to spend the night. Should we stop on the west side of Omaha, or try to make it to the east side by nightfall, thus avoiding tomorrow’s morning rush of inbound traffic?
    “I’d just as soon stop now,” I declare, checking the dashboard clock. “We’re making good enough time.”
    Molly wants to keep driving. She has an adolescent’s inexhaustible supply of late-night energy combined with an eagerness to get there. “Forget it,” she says. “I’m going past the city for sure.