And I made, in that middle seat, one of the hardest small decisions of my life as a mother: I took my hand off the buckle.

I sat still.

I trusted my ten-year-old, though I did not yet know what I was trusting her to do.

It is a strange thing, the first time you realize your child has become a person with a plan of her own, and that the most respectful thing you can do is get out of her way.

For ten years, being Maya’s mother had meant, at bottom, protecting her — putting my body between her and the sharp edges of the world, fighting the battles she was too small to fight, being the one who stepped in.

That is the whole job, in the early years; you are the wall.