I get the text that my teenager is on their way home, and my breath catches. 

This is the moment I’ve been waiting for. For weeks I’ve been counting down the days like a little kid marking time until their birthday. Finally, my baby will be back home!

A piece of me kicks into celebratory mode, but the rest of my body tightens. 

I know I will not be able to let loose a full breath of air for nearly four hours, won’t feel my shoulders let go until the dog ears perk at the sound of that car pulling into the driveway. 

I hear conflicting stories from other parents of older drivers about the future. Some insist it gets easier as the years go by, that their anxiety over having their child behind the wheel somewhere out there on the roads disappears as that child becomes more and more experienced. Others tell me this is simply the way it will always be, that the nervous edge that comes with having this person you created out there on the open road never fully disappears. 

I hope to land in the former camp, but I’m realistic. I have a feeling I may be destined to remain in the latter. 

It isn’t a lack of trust, at least not trust in my own child’s common sense and capabilities. 

Somehow, despite all the odds, I’ve lucked into parenting a child with a hearty streak of responsibility and reason. They may be even more of a rule follower than I was at their age. 

Like most things in life, it’s the other people whose actions leave me on edge, those other drivers whose decisions keep me from gathering my breath. 

Over those four hours, I will throw myself into work, allowing myself to deviate only when my phone vibrates with an incoming text. 

They’ve stopped for gas. 

Two more hours. 

The counting continues. 

And then it happens. The dog leaps from the couch and makes their way to the front door. A car door slams. 

A doorknob turns, the barking begins, and there they are, my baby right back where they belong. 

I can breathe again.