The First Time I Let Him Go

Every parent knows the day will come. Nothing prepares you for it anyway.

Image: Author

It began in the final months of 2025.

Like most parents, we were worried.

Every conversation about school admissions seemed to come with a warning: the good schools fill up quickly. If you wait too long, you’ll miss your chance. And when it comes to your child, “good enough” never feels good enough. You want the best. Every parent does.

So we began the process.

There were inquiry forms, school visits, endless discussions and far more research than I had imagined. We compared boards, evaluated teaching approaches, checked rankings, spoke to other parents, read reviews and debated every possible factor.

A three-year-old cannot make those decisions.

As parents, it is our job to lay the first bricks on the road they will walk.

The pressure felt enormous.

After weeks of discussions, evaluations and visits, we finally chose a school. It had a strong reputation, consistently ranked among the city’s better schools and was recommended by almost everyone we spoke to. The most reassuring part was that I had not heard a single genuinely negative comment about it.

We began the admission process for our son.

The only problem was the distance.

The thought of our tiny three-year-old travelling on a school bus without either parent felt unbearable.

His father struggled with that reality even more than I did. He was deeply attached to him and the idea of watching him leave every morning was difficult to accept. We spent longer discussing the distance than any other aspect of the school.

Eventually, we convinced ourselves.

Children grow.

Parents have to let them.

Admissions were completed, fees were paid and the school year was approaching. Yet there was still nearly a month before classes began.

We prepared ourselves mentally.

What we did not know was how to prepare him.

A week before school started, we collected his uniform, bought his shoes and gathered all the little things he would need. We tried the uniform on him. We packed and unpacked his belongings. We talked about school in cheerful voices.

Then the first day arrived.

We smiled more than usual.

We sounded more excited than we actually felt.

Beneath those smiles was fear.

We had no idea how he would react when the bus arrived, and he realized that neither Mumma nor Dada would be coming with him.

That morning, we dressed him in his uniform and took him to the bus stop together.

When he climbed onto the bus, he sat down comfortably, assuming one of us would sit beside him.

Then came the moment.

The moment he understood.

The moment I told him I would go now.

He burst into tears.

Not quiet tears. Not uncertain tears.

Heartbroken tears.

He cried so loudly that everyone on the bus turned to look at us.

He grabbed my clothes and clung to me with all the strength a three-year-old could summon. He wrapped himself around me like a little monkey, refusing to let go.

His father was standing beside us with tears in his eyes.

I was barely holding myself together.

Someone on the bus — one of the attendants — gently stepped in and tried to comfort him while I repeated the same promise again and again.

“Mumma will be waiting.”

“Mumma will be here when you come back.”

For five or seven minutes, he cried and begged me not to leave.

Then I did the hardest thing a parent sometimes has to do.

I let go.

The bus pulled away.

A few minutes later, I called the attendant to check on him.

Had he stopped crying?

Was he okay?

She laughed softly and told me he had already settled down.

Children are often stronger than their parents.

Back home, I tried to continue with my day. I cleaned, organised things around the house, and pretended to focus.

But my mind was still travelling in that yellow bus.

I spent the morning waiting for him.

Before pickup time, I prepared his favourite watermelon juice and left early.

When he returned, he was calm.

Composed.

As though the morning’s drama belonged to someone else.

He climbed into my lap, handed me his bag, and accepted his juice without much ceremony.

We walked home together.

I wanted to ask a hundred questions.

How was school?

Did you make friends?

Did you cry?

Were you scared?

Instead, I said nothing.

And neither did he.

The next morning was harder.

The sight of the uniform alone made him cry.

He didn’t want to wear it. He didn’t want to leave. He certainly didn’t want to see that bus again.

But we followed the routine.

At the bus stop, the tears returned.

Not quite as intense.

But close.

Again, we left him.

Again, we worried.

Again, he returned home calm and collected, drank his watermelon juice, and carried on with life.

By the third day, something had changed.

He was still reluctant, but the resistance had softened.

He no longer stiffened his body in protest.

It was as if he was beginning to understand that this was not a punishment.

This was simply life.

The crying was shorter.

The fear was smaller.

The routine was becoming familiar.

Then came the fourth day.

Instead of fighting the routine, he accepted it.

Before leaving, he had only one request.

“Come early to pick me up.”

“And bring my juice.”

I promised I would.

He climbed onto the bus and left.

And just like that, a new chapter of his life began.

The funny thing about parenthood is that we spend years teaching our children to walk away from us.

The first day of school is one of the earliest lessons.

For the child, it is about discovering a world beyond home.

For the parent, it is about learning that love sometimes means standing still while the bus drives away.