Separation and what it builds.

A mother in the clinic waiting room here in Vienna, this Tuesday. Her daughter is four and has been crying at drop-off every morning since school started three weeks ago. She stops within minutes. The mother knows this — the teacher messages her by 9:15 to confirm. The mother still cries in the car on the way to work.

I asked her to describe exactly what happens at the gate. She described it in detail: the daughter reaches for her, the mother removes the arms gently and hands her to the teacher, the daughter calls out once — a single syllable that is her mother's name — and then the gate closes.

I said: what happens to you in that moment?

She said: I feel like I'm doing something wrong.

I said: what would doing something right look like?

She thought about it for a long time. Then: if she wasn't crying, maybe.