My Daughter's First Day at School

Yesterday my daughter started school. She's six. For weeks she'd been excited — the new bag, the uniform, the pencils. On the morning itself, she stopped at the school gate and held my hand very tightly. "I don't want to go," she said.

I wanted to take her home. Instead I crouched down and said, "I'll be right here at twelve. Look at the clock. When the big hand is at the top, I'll be at the gate." She looked at the clock. She looked at me. Then a girl with red shoes came over and said hello, and my daughter let go of my hand.

I waited in the car for four hours, because going home felt wrong. At twelve she ran out, talking about the girl with red shoes, the teacher, and something about a rabbit. She didn't say she'd missed me. She didn't need to. I'd done the missing for both of us.