I said goodbye to Mom at the door.

She kissed my cheek, her hand lingering on my shoulder as if she were memorizing me — the warmth of my skin, the shape of this moment.

“You’ve got this,” she whispered, her voice steady but her eyes betraying her. Pride and worry lived there together, the way they always do in mothers.

I nodded, though a part of me wanted to tell her the truth — that I’d already lived this day once before. Instead, I smiled, tightened the strap of my bag, and ...