Two Weeks Ago, We Took Our Daughter To College. Today, She Comes Home.

Ever since we dropped our daughter off at Carolina in early August, people have asked me how I’m doing. To be honest, I’d long thought I would be a mess when the big day finally came. When I was in college in the early nineties, I heard the country song “Letting Go” by Suzy Bogguss. It’s the mom in the song who sheds the tears when her little girl leaves for college, but I had a feeling, well before I was even married, that it would one day be me. That song has always stayed with me.

During the last few years, as our daughter made her way through high school, so many friends told me how they couldn’t hold back the tears when they dropped their first child off at college.

Actually, I didn’t just think I’d be a mess; I expected it.

In the weeks leading up to her leaving, I made note of so many “lasts” for our time together. The last family vacation before she went off to college. The last time making blueberry dish, which has been a Sunday morning family tradition for so much of her childhood. The last time we watched a movie together as a family. It was “The Princess Bride,” her favorite.

I kept track of all of these, and I looked for other meaningful and emotional moments, because I knew I would write about them. That’s what I do for our children. For our daughter, I’ve written about the night she discovered that a wren died in our toolshed and how we buried it together. And the first road trip for which she was riding shotgun and handling the music. And the last time I ever sang her to sleep.

A common theme in every piece is how she makes us so proud, how she is a remarkable young woman who will do great things, and how we hope the world will never get in her way.

But that day at Carolina didn’t meet my grand expectations. It was almost surgical. There were just two loads from the car. We ate take-out pizza for dinner. We hugged quickly in the parking lot, and we said good-bye. That’s how it goes in a pandemic.

On that big day, when we took our first-born child to college, no moment moved me to write. No memories of our baby girl moved me to tears.

Because I must have known we’d get to this point.

We always hoped we wouldn’t. As we drove back that night we hoped the semester would last. When outbreak clusters were announced in two dorms and a fraternity, we still had hope. On a Friday in August we still had hope. By Monday, there was a new cluster, in our daughter’s dorm. Then came the news. All classes were going to proceed online, and students staying on campus were asked to leave and take their belongings with them.

Despite our hope, the world has gotten in her way.

I can’t help but think of my own freshman year, thirty years ago. I think of the great friends I met, the explorations we made into our new world, and the freedom we had for the first time in our lives.

Then I think of our daughter. All of her classes had been online from day one. She stayed in her dorm room, venturing out only for fresh air and occasional trips to get something to go from the dining hall. She and her roommate followed all the safety protocols, but it wasn’t enough.

Today, my wife heads to Chapel Hill to bring our daughter home. I will stay here to make sure our sons stay on top of their virtual learning.

I also thought it was better that I not go. I had a feeling that the emotions and moments I was looking for are all still there. In our daughter’s empty dorm room, or the breezeway where we took our selfie two weeks ago, or in the parking lot where we hugged good-bye. Or they’d be in the rearview mirror as Carolina gently slips away. Those moments would surely find me if I went, and they would overwhelm me.

But, even staying here, there is no escaping them. When we dropped our daughter off at college, a dear friend’s mom suspected I might be a mess. She told me that when she was younger, her grandmother wrote her this: “I know your Mother cried when you left for college yesterday, but she’d have cried a LOT more if you hadn’t been able to go.”

Our daughter is coming home today. Given the increasing number of cases at Carolina, it is recommended that she quarantine in her room and that she social distance, even from us. In the days to come, I will walk by her room often. It’s the same room that was her nursery so many years ago. Her door will be closed, and her freshman year of college will continue inside.

I hope that her disappointment will be short-lived, and I hope the world will soon get out of her way.

But what I know for certain is that the moments and emotions are finally finding me and that I will feel these tears forever.