College Drop-Off Is One Giant Family Lie

“Study hard.” “I’ll miss you.” “Call anytime.” Sure.

I spent three hours at UC Berkeley drop-off recently, watched roughly a hundred parents say goodbye to their children, and, as any reasonably nosy person would, read their minds. Here is what nobody actually said.

Some boys arrived with their belongings in trash bags. The girls arrived with pretty pink and powder-blue luggage, matching organizers, velvet hangers and enough fairy lights to land a small aircraft. One side looked like it was moving into college. The other looked like it was opening a Sephora franchise with a minor in interior design. The boys brought a mattress topper. The girls brought a mattress topper, a shower caddy, three different kinds of storage for things that had never previously required storage, and a nine-bulb vanity mirror because apparently you cannot face your freshman-year identity crisis in bad lighting.

The dads were particularly interesting. You could see the pride, the emotion, the slight panic about tuition and, in some cases, a tiny private celebration. “Study well, champ. Make us proud,” they said. I could hear them mentally saying, Live a little, son. Just don't live so much that I get a call from the dean. Don't wake up in someone's bathtub. Don't get caught on TikTok. And please don't blow the $200,000 (or $400,000 if you're out of state) I have broken my back to pay for this degree. One dad had the look of a man who had just dropped off his youngest or only child and was already calculating how many years until retirement. Another quietly unpacked a drill, a screwdriver set and enough hardware to renovate the dorm, nodding respectfully at yet another dad assembling a wooden shelf in the hallway. This was not helping his child move in. This was a male bonding exercise at IKEA.

A son was hugging Mom goodbye. “Mom, I’ll miss you so much,” he said, while every organ in his body was screaming FREEDOM. I could almost hear Aerosmith blasting through his ears. One dad had a little smirk that gave away his innermost desire, Wooohooo, our marriage is officially back in the Anywhere Anytime era. Don't ask me how I read that. I just did. His wife didn't seem particularly thrilled.

The moms were harder to read because they were mostly trying not to cry. They were asking sensible questions in increasingly frantic succession: “Did you bring your meds? Socks? Laundry detergent?” Translation: Once I leave this room, who will I manage? Who will I nag? Who will I remind? Who will I rescue from their own incompetence? What is my purpose now? Some were holding it together beautifully. Others were holding it together with what I suspect was a discreet shot before 9 a.m. Nobody was judging. This was a medical necessity.

Moms of daughters had their own private battle. “You don't have to blend in; you're amazing exactly the way you are,” they said, while looking at a top that appeared to be a handkerchief. What they meant was, Please don't wear that to a frat party where some idiot with a phone will turn your mother into a meme. But mothers have learned that college is the age when you stop saying what you think and start saying things like, “Make good choices, sweetheart.”

The younger siblings were another species altogether. “I'm going to miss you so much,” they said, hugging their departing brother or sister with suspiciously little grief. What they meant was, I am taking over your room, using your expensive perfume, stealing your clothes and finally getting the bathroom to myself. There was love there, certainly. But there was also real estate.

And then there was the goodbye. That strange little ritual where everyone lies.

The child says, “I'll call.”

Dad says, “Don't worry about us.”

Mom says, “Have fun, but be safe.”

Nobody says, I have spent eighteen years being needed by you and I don't know what happens to me now.

Nobody says, I'm paying a small fortune for you to discover yourself, so please at least discover yourself while attending class.

Nobody says, Please don't join a cult just because they offered you free boba.

They say, “We're so proud of you!”

And they mean it.

That is the annoying thing about parenthood. Beneath all the eye-rolling, tuition anxiety, inappropriate tops, competitive dads and younger siblings already dividing up the spoils, there is this enormous, inconvenient love.

You spend eighteen years teaching a child how to leave you. And when they finally do, you drive home in silence, enter their room, and realize the hardest part of parenting isn't letting go; it's learning who you are when you're not actively being a parent.

You sit on their bed. You cry. You grieve the end of a chapter. Then your phone buzzes.

Mom, can you order something from Target?

Fine. You order it.

Also, can you Amazon the shower thing?

You do.

I brought too much stuff. Can you take some back? I have no room.

But you just got home.

Can you send me $300?

You send it.

Actually $350?

And finally.

The cafeteria food is kinda weird. I'm not sure I'm gonna like it.

And just like that, the empty nest is no longer empty. You are back to being customer service, tech support, financial services, laundry consultant, emergency food procurement and Amazon Prime.

You were sobbing because your baby left you two hours ago. Now you want to choke them. Which, I suspect, is what they call a successful college transition.