They called her name before we were even halfway across the schoolyard.

"Beth! Hey Beth!" one of them cried. Then the others took up the call, and the gaggle of little girls dashed over to us and threw their arms around my oldest daughter.

I was glad to see her running to meet them. Two months ago, even when some of the other kindergarteners had stopped waiting by the classroom door with their mothers every morning in favor of running around under the watchful eyes of the playground ladies, Beth didn't want to go. Every morning, even in the cold and the rain, she wanted me and her sisters with her, waiting by her side until the teacher opened the door. Only then, after a round or two of kisses and hugs, she was able to cheerfully bid us farewell and start her day.

"Don't you want to play on the playground with the other kids?" I would ask her.

"No," she would say, clinging to my hand. "I just want you, Mama."

And so I stayed.

Over the last few weeks, though, she has several times chosen playground time over waiting with me, but only after I walked over with her and gave her an encouraging hug or two before saying good-bye.

And then came today. When her friends called her name she ran to them, ponytail bouncing along behind her head. They swarmed around her, and as a group they raced to the swings.

"Are you just going to play out here then?" I called after her. "Do you want me to stay?"

She didn't come running back to give me a hug and kiss.

"Beth?" I called.

She turned to give me a grin, and then she was off. With a running leap, an over the shoulder wave, a toss of her head.

Beautiful and happy and gone.