Last year, the Fourth of July wasn't a bang for me. While others celebrated our nation's independence, the only fireworks I noticed were a painful explosion of emotions as I experienced an independence of my own - my first full day in an empty nest.
    The previous day, my youngest daughter Holly, my constant companion for 19 years, left for Navy boot camp. During our final hug before she was bused from a Columbus, Ohio, processing facility to the nearby airport, I tried to be strong but my heart wouldn't listen to my head. During that brief hug, I remembered a two-year-old, pig-tailed blonde running across a baseball diamond during a Little League game I was umpiring, jumping into my arms, and settling onto her throne atop my shoulders. Now, the older version of that little girl was stepping into the unknown and I couldn't save her or offer comfort.
    On the drive home from Columbus, the windshield wipers did their jobs but I struggled to see. Grief and sadness readily flowed. My baby girl was gone. I couldn't believe this day had come so quickly. For brief intervals, I was able to calm myself with logic. In 2015, my son Andy joined the Air Force. Holly was with me when we said our last goodbyes to him and drove away. The drive home was a slobber fest. Holly and I barely spoke. We just patted each other periodically and sniffled a lot. But Andy adjusted to life outside the nest and now has a nest of his own in Florida.
    She's done the same, settling, for now, at her first duty station in San Diego. But while she was in boot camp, I worried for her every day. I remembered the loneliness and fear associated with leaving home and then facing the reality of someone not only telling you what to do, but doing so in harsh tones. The adjustment is a struggle, and this is my baby girl!
    I wrote nearly every day and kept my phone glued to my side in case she was able to call. The pain of losing her was pure selfishness, I knew, but that realization didn't provide much comfort. Finally, a few weeks in, I got a letter. Then another. Then a phone call. She was struggling at first, which hurt my heart. But as time passed, she sounded happier, more confident. When she called to tell me she was the top sharpshooter in her squadron (or whatever they call it – I'm an old Air Force guy), which included males and females, I was shocked and so proud. When she provided self-reflection in letters, noting how she was growing as an individual via adversity, my heart melted.
    Smiley Eyes, as I have called her since she was a child, was adjusting to being an adult, whether I liked it or not.
On the evening of Sunday, January 19, a camouflaged sailor dove into my bed and woke me, a surprise visit that quickly evolved into an excited hug fest.  For the next week, life was normal. Smiley Eyes was home! Life was temporarily golden.
Then she was gone again, back to her new life as a cog in the defense of our great nation.
When she left, there were heart flutters, but this time I held back the tears (I wish I could say I'm doing the same as I write this).
My baby girl can live without me now and I think I'm finally okay with it.