There is silence in my home every day. After I drop my son off at school I return to an empty house. The quiet, stillness doesn’t bother me. The isolation doesn’t bother me – I’ve always been in pretty good company with just my thoughts. The time is a welcome break from my energetic four-year-old and the absence stages the best part of my day – the moment my wife and son walk through the door and our family is together again.

It has been six months since I dropped my son off for his first day of Kindergarten. I remember the day well – a warm, dry September morning that had yet to give way to the typical dewy sunrises of approaching fall. Children lined the streets in their colourful dress, backpacks slung over miniature shoulders. The streets were hectic with cars of parents racing to schools so they could race to their jobs.

I had never experienced a September morning like this.

Parents seemed relieved – most walked in front of their children, ushering them toward relief from the tedium of summer break. Kids seemed happy, that is, the kids who were returning for another year of education. Waves and screams to pocketed friends of the school year echoed the tree-lined avenue.

My son, Cash was happy, too.

He had picked out his clothes, packed his bag and optimistically ate his breakfast. My wife and I had been preparing his transition into a new routine for months – explaining why school was important, what types of activities and play that would be involved, and that he would have a class full of children his age to experience it with. We had also introduced him to his teacher prior to his commencement.

Rolling down the street on his scooter, Cash always kept ten feet ahead of me. With youthful excitement he meandered through the crowds – running the gauntlet of pedestrians.

Cash and I made our way to the rear of the school. His class was to meet in the fenced in playground adjacent to the baseball diamond. The school was old.

Fragmented red-brown bricks clambered upward to chipped-white molding that sadly hung below the dilapidated roof. It was still charming.

On the playground teachers, educational assistants and volunteers wandered around the convergence of four and five year olds, maintaining civility among the new group.

We had arrived. Cash was a name on a clipboard that was checked off. His teacher gave him a sticker. “C-A-S-H spells Cash!” he blurted out with enthusiasm as she placed the nametag on his tee shirt. School officially started for now and perennially.

Although Cash seemed prepared, I did not know how he would react to me leaving him. Will he be scared? Will he miss me? Will he cry?

Cash wrapped his arms around my neck as I knelt to his eye level. He gave me a kiss and he was gone.

I stood and watched him on the playground, shoulder to shoulder with the other parents. He fearlessly wandered around exploring his new surroundings. Some of the kids came up to him to talk and he was happy to engage, however he never sought out his classmates to do the same.

I was so proud of him. He didn’t look back, didn’t question why I was leaving him and he didn’t cry. Cash was the bravest person in the world that day.

Leading up to that September morning I never stopped to think about how I would feel. We had prepared Cash but was I going to be truly ready for that most significant and life altering day?

Walking away from the fences and the bricks and the delightful screams I began to weep. As a stay at home dad, my son and I had spent our days together learning from each other, laughing and playing.

This was the first time that he didn’t need me. And although that day I was proud of his courage I longed so deeply for him to scream my name as I walked away. I envisioned him needing just one more hug before I left, or one more utterance of encouragement.

That day he was stronger than me and I can’t fault him for it.

To this day, six months later, dropping Cash off at school still seems strange. I’m not sad, I don’t miss him like I did that day, but I haven’t gotten used to those first moments when I leave him. And I hope that I never will.