Eighteen years ago, I held the wailing bundle of light that was my third daughter. Now, I watch her walk amongst her peers, smiling at her sisters as she shakes the superintendent’s hand then goes to accept her diploma.

I’ve done this twice before, and I’m still not used to it. The novelty hasn’t worn off yet. There’s something new with each one of my girls. My oldest, Karlie, was the first to graduate. She looks different now. She’s not little anymore. She’s grown. Then there was Chloe. I always knew she could do it, even if it was hard for her.

Now, it’s Caroline. My mini-me. She’s not grown, but it hurts to realize she’s not quite little anymore, either. She’s going to college in the fall. She’ll do fine, I’m sure. She did well in high school and she’ll do well in college. It’s sad to think she’ll be doing it without me.

I am glad to no longer be married to her father, but I wish I hadn’t missed out on so much of my daughters lives. Caroline has succeeded, and I saw none of the build-up. I did not help her with her homework. I did not help her with her projects. I can rest easy knowing her father didn’t either, but it aches, anyway.

I’m proud of her. She hears it from me often. I’m proud of all my kids for who they are. They all succeed in their own corners of society. Karlie’s strong-willed and hard-working. Chloe’s a fantastic mother and a kind person. Kadee, still young, is stubborn but good.

Caroline is not going to be the first of my girl’s to further her education, but she will be the first to go to a private university. Karlie went to the local community college and never finished her degree. Chloe is still taking classes at the same community college, but has to go slow for her new baby, and will transfer to another college in a year or two. She’s not the first in the family to be valedictorian, her cousin taking that title, but she’s still the first to leave our little town. It’s strange. She and her cousin are both going to the same university in the fall, but Caroline will be going there as a freshman, her cousin a junior. She’s really and truly the first to go.

I am proud of her, but I don’t want her to go. It’s not a long drive, but she won’t be living where I can just pick her up anymore. She’ll be in a dorm I’ll never see on a campus I’ve never been to.

She holds the diploma in front of her, beaming at her friends beside her. She has good friends. The friend to her left is going to Mississippi. The friend to her right is going to a private Christian university. She knows she may never see either of them again.

I think of her speech. I have never heard a speech like that before, and, based on the reactions from the people around me, neither have they. It was light-hearted and friendly, and her voice wasn’t the only one that carried it across the gymnasium. She gave her valedictorian speech with the friend who is leaving for Mississippi. The speech was about connections, about loving the people around them, about how having them in her life made things bright and charming.

I hope she knows she has that affect on people, too. That since she came into this world, she has made things better. I love her and am endlessly proud of her, but I will miss her.

She will be the first to leave for a four-year University, and she was the first to give a two-person speech, and I am sure there will be so many more firsts, though I am sad I will miss them.

I can’t see her in the crowd of students. She goes to a small school. She knows all her peers. She will miss them. They will miss her.

The caps fly. I wonder if she had the wherewithal to take her tassel off before flinging it into the air. If she didn’t, I will help her look for it.

She’s not my first, and she’s not my last, but she’s special all on her own. She’s a person I am proud of. I can see her now, the crowd parted just enough, smiling as she hugs one of her friends. She’s holding her tassel in one hand, cap in the other, and I know she’ll come over here soon, bright and cheerful and freshly graduated. I will tell her I love her. I will tell her I’m proud. I won’t tell her I’m not ready for her to go. She’s ready, and that will have to be enough for me.