A few weeks ago, the security office where I once worked sent me a message. They found a key, left in a lock, that records identified as mine. It has been a few years since I needed it, so I assured them that it now belongs to someone else. 

 

I've had to hand in another key, because I no longer hold the job of mother. Our relationships have moved on to other versions, involving friendship, and reminiscing. But I no longer have access to my children's hearts the way I once did. They have given those openers to other people who are younger and whose hands they prefer to hold. 

 

Probably if I had paid more attention to the contract I would have seen this coming. But I signed it as recklessly as a release form when you go horseback riding.

 

At least with most jobs, there is a final paycheck, and even a party if you ended amicably. But mothering slipped through my fingers.

 

My services are no longer required because the babies who once fit in the crook of my arm grew enough to reach the refrigerator handle and even buy the guacamole inside.  

 

This was the point. No one is supposed to prefer their mother to an independent life. But I was distracted by the sensation of their brown eyes searching for me in the auditorium and, having found me, wiggled with joy. 

 

Now they look for someone else.  It's embarrassing to confess that I miss being queen, or at least employee of the month. Part of me doesn't. It was taxing. Plus, the ways I served my children no longer exist. I don't comprehend their resumes, or the fractured world they have inherited. 

 

I wonder if my mother felt this way. I never asked.