The August sun beat down as we unloaded our overpacked cars and schlepped box after box to the third floor of my daughter's dorm. The sidewalks buzzed with nervous freshmen and parents carrying lamps, mini-refrigerators, bedding, and everything else that somehow didn't fit into a single vehicle. Everyone was smiling, but beneath the excitement lingered something heavier.

Our youngest daughter, Keziah, couldn't have been happier. She carefully unpacked her favorite things while her dad wrestled the refrigerator up three flights of stairs and lofted her bed. We arranged fluffy throw pillows on her futon, tucked little plants onto the windowsill, and admired the cozy room she'd soon call home. A warm breeze drifted through the open window, and for a moment everything felt just right.

We grabbed Chick-fil-A, made one last Target run, and returned to her room for a final look around. We didn't want to hover or make the goodbye harder than it already was. She sat on her futon, looked around her room with a smile, and simply said, "I think I'm ready."

She was.

I wasn't.