“Mom, I just got an email from a college in Canterbury. They’re offering me a 100% scholarship to go there next year. Boarding and tuition included”, My daughter, Maddie, exclaimed. Her voice started getting squeaky by the end of her sentence. A few seconds passed, and her smile dropped. Her eyebrows furrowed. She was awaiting a response.

“Honey that’s amazing! I knew you could do it, come here, I’m so proud of you." I did not want her to know how much the news hurt me. I froze out my emotions and forced my lips to extend into a smile.

Why was I this way? Why could I not just be happy? She was getting the future I had worked my entire life to provide for her.

I walked into my youngest daughter’s room and found her sitting on her bed, staring at the wall as she usually tended to do when she was overwhelmed. Her eyes were cloudy, blank.

“Did she get in, mom?” Her eyes welled up and I felt my throat stiffen as I blinked back my own tears.

“Yes, she did. I know this is going to hurt, but please, just try to be happy for her.” A confused look struck her face. A single tear dampened her cheek.

“What are you talking about? I’m ecstatic.”

I heard her feet meet the hardwood, as she headed for the door, refusing to meet my gaze. My legs buckled from under me and before I knew it, I could feel the warmth of the floor with my palms. My daughters’ squeals and jumps of celebration rang in my ears, even though they both knew they were going to lose their best friend - each other.

I marvelled at the fact that my 10-year-old was able to handle this loss better than me. I guess I knew a few more things than her. I knew that my eldest would come sporadically, a few days at a time. I would be saying goodbye before I even had the chance to comprehend the fact that she was home.

The summer went by in a flurry of preparations, and before I knew it, I was standing in front of my daughter’s new home. My insides emptied at the thought that my child would be sleeping countries away, that she could not come to me whenever she needed, that her address was different than mine. I knew there was a silver lining, it was just settled under a haze of my own conflictions at that moment.

Walking into the accommodation, we were introduced to her “house parent”. That term was always amusing to me. She had a mother and a father, that was it. The house parents would be the people who they quickly pretended they were asleep for or snuck past when coming in after curfew. They weren’t her parents. They were just employees.

My chest tightened as we were escorted inside her room. This can’t be my daughter’s room. Her room was back home, the one with two beds with butterfly blankets where both girls giggled and whispered at night, the one with two wooden tables where they would argue over who’s homework was harder. I never accepted it as her room. It was a room, a bed and a table, but no history, no memories. It was a blank canvas. I stroked the rough surface of the poor-quality sheets she would be sleeping on, smelled the scent of the harsh chemicals they had sanitized the room with. The mid-fall air whistling in from the window made it a perfectly uncomfortable temperature. I struggled to imagine her living here for the next two years of her life.

My heart and stomach dropped to the floor in the realization that this was it. Time to go. The three of us, my youngest daughter, husband, and me, stood in front of Maddie, unable to speak. All I could hear was the rustling of leaves outside, and a cool breeze taunted us, as it was impossible for any of us to appreciate it. I tried to mutter something to express what I was feeling, but my throat had closed, refusing to say any goodbyes, refusing to let her go. My arms spread, hosting a final embrace.

I looked over to my husband, I needed to see someone stable, someone strong, I needed support. His nose had flushed, his chin was trembling, and his eyes red.

I needed to say something, anything.

“Te dua”, I said, words in a language, Albanian, that she would scarcely hear anymore, meaning “I love you”. In my mind, I knew I really meant to say “me duhesh”, “I need you”.