Still, there is a shadow, a shudder of growing redundancy, a reminder of the paradox that my job is to make it possible for her to leave me, to walk away from our present intimacy and form her own life. My children are the main actors, and I am the audience. I will always be in thrall to them, but they won’t always be in thrall to me. And I won’t always be able to watch over them, to keep them safe in my protection. This intimacy has a shelf life. Already, it hurts. I feel a premonition as I watch them grow before my eyes. This is life, and it is hard, and it is right.
