Told Her A Thousand Times

There is a pile of clothes on the bathroom floor, left there by our eldest daughter. It's all tangled together, the undershirt inside out, the socks still balled up, abandoned there, willy-nilly, for everyone else in the house to step over. There it is, reminding me of my daughter's cheerfully inconsiderate sloppiness. She knows better: I've told her to pick up her clothes at least a thousand times.

Up until yesterday, the pile of clothes would have made me seethe. Just the sight of it would have had me drawing in a deep breath and sighing it out slowly, on a count of ten. This morning, though, it has an entirely different effect on me as I stare down at it: our beloved Eldest Daughter has struck off on her own. She is now over two thousand miles away from us, staying with friends, excited about her new life, waiting to start university in a mere five months.

We put her on a plane to Istanbul yesterday morning. We waited in line, all of us tense and tearful. To distract myself, I studied the people ahead of us in line: a family of six men, one woman, and a baby. All of the men were bearded and wore scull caps. The eldest man had on a long greatcoat of some thick material that resembled velvet; it was bottle-green with a fur collar and looked about a hundred years old. With his deeply lined face and flowing white beard, he exuded a patriarch's confidence and bearing. He and the younger men were all clutching prayer beads, similar to the ones I'm always snatching away from my students (who tend to play with them, to the detriment of their English acquisition). The woman, young and svelte, was dressed in blue jeans and a jacket; her baby had brown curly hair and reminded me of our Eldest, as a toddler. As a group these people were so compelling that for a moment I almost forgot what we were there for.

"You're sure Lucy's mom is picking you up in Glasgow, right?"

For once, Eldest Daughter doesn't roll her eyes. She knows what the subtext is here: I love you. "Yes. I checked," she says quietly, with remarkable forbearance.

"And you've got all your documents? You don't need us to send anything?"

There's a different subtext here, one she knows well: Are you sure you're really together enough for this? Don't you still need us around, holding your hand, making sure you've got everything you need? My mother used to ask me questions like this too, and it drove me as wild as my questions drive my daughter.

"If I need anything, I'll write to you." Buzz off -- I can look after myself.

In front of us, the bearded men are joined by a tall Asian man with glossy jet-black hair. He greets the patriarch Turkish-style, right hand smacked over the left side of his chest, and they begin a spirited conversation -- in Russian.

"My suitcase is way over the limit," Eldest moans. "What if they charge me?" I may be independent, but I still have some anxieties.

"I've got enough to pay for it," I tell her. "But you'll have to pay me back." I told you not to pack all that crap; you're independent now, so you pay for yourself.

"You'll be in trouble on the London to Glasgow flight," warns my husband. "They're notorious for charging you for extra luggage."I'm not sure you're up to this. There's so much you still don't know.

Eldest takes a deep, long-suffering breath. "If I have to pay for it, I'll pay for it." I'm my own woman now; I'll figure it out.

The young woman ahead of us shifts her baby from one hip to the other. One of the men chucks the toddler under her chin and croons to her, and the young woman smiles, though her face is tired. You've got this all ahead of you, I feel like telling her as the family's luggage is checked in.

Our Eldest sets off the alarm as she walks through the metal detector. She removes the contents of her pockets: Turkish lira, Euros, hair clips. The patriarch, behind us now, sets off the alarm too: he ends up having to take off his hat.

"How cool is it that you're on a flight with guys like this?" I whisper to my daughter as the Turkish-Asian-Russian family reunites and begins a long ritual of chest slapping and hugging. We watch them saying goodbye, prayer beads clutched in their hands as they kiss each others' cheeks. "What nationality do you think they are?" Let's try and pretend we're not really saying goodbye.

"Do we all have our passports?" asks my husband anxiously. "Can we go through passport control to see her off do you think?" Let's put this off as long as we possibly can.

All of us have our passports, but we can't go through. We all take turns hugging her, our daughter, sister, friend.

"Fighting!" cries Acquired Daughter, trying to joke away her tears. She brandishes her fists, attempting to mimic the actors in the Korean dramas all three of our girls follow so passionately. "I'll miss you!" echoes Youngest Daughter, hugging her. I love you, I love you.

"Write to us," says my husband, pressing his lips together to keep from crying as he hugs her goodbye. "Take good care of yourself," I add. We love you.

"We love you!" we all tell her.

But she already knows that: we've told her at least a thousand times.