I let him run ahead. He knows to stop before the road; he always does. But there’s always a chance that this time, unpredictably, inexplicably, horrifically, he won’t. I watch him running towards danger and I do not intervene. I think: This is what it is to be a mother. I cannot always hold his hand. Sometimes I'll have to let him run, to pray he won’t forget what he has learned. I think: I’m close enough to see, but not to save. I think: I am a parent now. I will do this for the rest of my life.
Emma Wilkins is an Australian journalist and freelance writer who's interested in relationships, literature, culture, ethics, and belief. You can find her at emmahwilkins.com and on Facebook at emmahwilkins.