Ever since she’s been old enough to take herself to bed, her last stop of the night has been to come into the office for a cuddle and a little talk and to say goodnight. We’re ten days from lift-off and now she feels like every little household routine and tradition is happening for close to the last time. She’s eighteen now — she started toddling into this room at less than my seated shoulder height — and she’s holding on a little longer at night, taking things slower, making them last a little bit longer. The woman I helped raise is leaving home. Off to university in ten days. She’s ready for it. She’s excited. But every now and then I see her feel the chill of sudden altitude in the pit of her stomach. Off to live alone for the first time in a place she’s barely visited and doesn’t know anyone in. Working without a net and hanging between handholds.

Never let them think you don’t feel the chill too. Never let them think they’re alone. Never hold them back. Never let them think for a second that a handhold is out of reach.