”I won’t cry if you leave.”

“I won’t cry if you leave.”

I left.

She cried.

Détante.

Reset tomorrow.

Those words stung. Not because I’d never heard them before. Because she’s now in preschool.

For the past week, I’ve been baffled by my emotions. Confused. Heightened. Anxious. Excited. Scared.

“I won’t cry if you leave.”

This is one of my biggest fears. In context, it’s a bedtime fit. I’m upset because she seems to have regressed into several potty accidents per day. I raise my voice. I take away books and toys. I’m disappointed and frustrated. She doubles-back with threats of her own.

“I won’t cry if you leave [my room at bedtime].”

It feels like a clear jab at the fact that she does not cry for us when she enters preschool each day. Something I’m proud of.

It’s a few hours a day, but it’s clear: this is the beginning of leaving her exposed to a world that is not overseen by me. She is not aided by me. She is not guided by me. She is not protected by me.

Today, at an older girl’s birthday party, I guard her spot in line from bigger kids; shielded her from bigger kids during a piñata rush; encouraged her to sit with the bigger kids during cupcakes. I’m cognizant of her hearing aides. Is she she’s overwhelmed? Can she hear the kids around her? Is she spatially aware of what’s going on? I’m proud when she leans into her independence, hurriedly leaving the crowds for scaling playgrounds bigger than she ought to for new and exciting slides. Maybe I should let her fend for herself more often. But then there’s the accidents. Maybe she still needs me.

“I won’t cry if you leave.”

It’s all too real when she tells me this when she’s upset with me. When she wants to prove her independence. And it’s all too real when she doesn’t cry when she leaves me for preschool — for a world that is not mine to oversee.