Children don't grow gradually.
They leap.
One day Asha fit perfectly in Mira's arms. The next, she stood in front of the mirror wearing a school uniform, shoes shining like a promise, backpack bigger than her confidence.
"I'm ready," she announced at six in the morning.
School started at nine.
No one corrected her.
Excitement runs on its own clock.
Mira fixed Asha's collar for the fifth time. Arjun checked the backpack again: water bottle, lunch box, spare socks, tissues. A universe compressed into pink fabric.
Asha sighed dramatically.
"You're nervous," she said.
"We're not," Arjun replied too quickly.
Mira nodded too hard.
Asha smiled like someone who had solved a puzzle.
"I'll come back," she assured them.
"It's just school."
They stared at her.
Somehow, she was the calm one.
The school gate overflowed with parents pretending bravery. Children clung, cried, negotiated final hugs.
Asha held their hands until the last step.
Then she let go.
No tears.
No hesitation.
She walked inside without looking back.
Mira's chest tightened.
"She didn't even turn," she whispered.
Arjun squeezed her hand gently.
"That means she trusts us."
Letting go, Mira realized, is a parent's first quiet heartbreak.
Necessary.
Beautiful.
Painful.
The apartment felt wrong without her.
Too tidy. Too quiet.
Mira picked up a forgotten toy and sat on the couch.
"She's growing," she said softly.
There was pride in her voice.
And grief.
Arjun sat beside her.
"She's supposed to," he replied.
"I know," she said.
"I just wish time asked permission."
He smiled.
"If it did, no one would move."
She leaned into him.
Parenthood, she understood, was loving while losing.
At pickup, Asha ran out covered in paint.
"I made a sun!" she shouted.
Her hands were orange, her smile brighter.
She talked nonstop about new friends, teachers, snacks traded like treasure. Her world had expanded, and she carried it easily.
Mira knelt and hugged her tight.
"How was it?" she asked.
Asha grinned.
"I'm going back tomorrow."
Relief flooded them both.
That night, after Asha fell asleep, they stood in her doorway watching her breathe.
The rise and fall of her chest anchored the universe.
Arjun whispered:
"She's our miracle."
Mira shook her head gently.
"She's our continuation."
And somehow, that felt even bigger.