One morning not long ago I unexpectedly ran into my 12-year-old daughter Violet. I had taken the day off and was heading to the coffee shop to do
some work prior to a doctor’s appointment. She was walking to school, shuffling
along unhurriedly, trying to untangle the knotted cords of her earphones as she
went.
Meetings like this are still novel because they’re infrequent. I run into friends, acquaintances, and former co-workers every now
and then, but I don't often have chance meetings with my daughter. She’s still slowly, in small, incremental steps,
emerging from the time of life when everything is planned for you by someone
else, when parents are responsible for deciding what you do, when you do it,
and who you do it with. The thought of her gradually reaching greater and
greater degrees of independence is liberating, in one way. But it takes some
getting used to.
When I saw Violet, I walked across the street to say hello. She
smiled and said, in a singsong voice, “Hello, Daddy. Fancy meeting you here!” I
smiled back at that; she has a winning way with me sometimes, this girl. We
talked for a minute and I told her not to be late to school. She assured me she wouldn't,
though my fatherly angst – I am a very good worrier – told me to keep our
conversation short, so that she could make it to school at her casual pace before the bell.
It’s a cliché, of course, but what parent hasn’t experienced
it – the feeling that your children's future is unwritten, that they're on their way somewhere, and that, ultimately, they're getting there on their own? I felt it
that morning when, after our little exchange, I caught a glimpse of Violet still
fussing with the cords of her earphones just before she turned a corner towards
school and disappeared into her day, and I into mine.
