“The First Goodbye Happens So Slowly”

You don’t notice it at first—

the quiet exit.

It comes

in small, almost-silent

goodbyes.

The day they stop

asking for help with socks.

The first time

they close the door

and don’t call you back in.

The way their questions

shift

from why is the sky blue

to

can I go alone?

You still pack their lunch

with love letters in grapes.

Still watch them sleep

like it’s prayer.

But their world

is slowly becoming

bigger than you.

And that’s what you wanted—

right?

Letting go

doesn’t come with a ceremony.

It’s not marked

on calendars.

It sneaks in

during breakfast.

During school drop-offs.

During the pause

before they wave.

You smile.

You cheer.

You say

go be brave.

And later,

in the kitchen light,

you whisper

come back anyway.

They will outgrow

your lap

but never your longing

to keep them close.

And you—

you will learn

to celebrate their flight

while mourning

the nest.

This is the paradox of parenting:

every milestone

is a miracle

and a mourning.

And still,

you cheer.

You clap.

You drive them

to the edge of their becoming

and let them walk.

Because love

means holding on

just tightly enough—

and letting go

just in time.