My 16-year-old daughter isn’t going to homecoming this year with the usual group of girl friends.

She’s going with a boy. His name is Dalton. He has blond, curly hair, and he’s a swimmer on the high school team. He invited Emily the other night while they were at a bonfire party, when Dalton ’s best friend, Sean, also invited Emily’s best friend, Abby. The four of them will go to the dance together.

That’s all I know about my daughter’s upcoming first date. That’s all I learned when I sat next to Abby’s mother at our daughters’ soccer game the other night.

“Guess it’s pretty cool that our daughters are double-dating for the homecoming dance,” she said.

“Huh?”

There was a time when information about my daughter’s life wasn’t delivered second-hand, when she couldn’t wait to tell me everything.

E-V-E-R-Y-T-H-I-N-G.

“I have a new friend named Isabella,” she’d say, as we lay cuddled on her twin bed for night-night time when she was 5.

“Isabella is a pretty name,” I said.

“Yeah, and I hurt my toe today,” she’d continue, holding her foot close to my face so I could see.

“Oh, and guess what, Mom?”

“What?”

“It’s my turn to be star of the week at kindergarten!”

I was once my daughter’s No. 1 go-to person. When there was trouble, like that time when a big, tall fourth-grade boy was chasing her around the playground, it was me she sought out first to tell. When there was a good grade on a paper, or a disappointing one or a mean teacher or a hurt feeling, I was her BFF.

Now a boy has asked her to homecoming, and she didn’t rush to tell me.

“So I guess we’ve been out of touch a bit,” I said offhandedly, my eyes straight ahead, when I drove her home from soccer that night. “And I guess I’ve missed a few things. Like, um, are you going to homecoming with somebody?”

“Yeah, Mom. He’s just a friend. I didn’t want to make a big deal about it.”

“OK, but somewhere along the way, we need to figure out some things, like when you want to go shopping for a dress, whether you’re going out for dinner, who’s buying the pictures.”

“Yeah, but can we talk about it later?”

I’m sure I’ll eventually find out what any discerning parent needs to know, like who this boy’s family is, who’s driving to the dance, whether they plan to attend after-dance parties, that kind of thing. But the nuances — like what’s going on in her heart, like how does it feel to be going on a real date with a boy — those intimate things are hers to own now, not mine to share.

That’s okay, I tell myself. This is the natural order. This is a time for her to pull away, while I take a giant step back. She individuates while I discover that fine line between involvement and enmeshment. It is her job during this period of human adolescence to separate from me. It is my job to keep the door of our emotional connection open, while allowing her to close the door, even slam it, as needed.

I remind myself that I survived this once before — with my elder son, who is 20 now and over his adolescent aloofness.

I tell myself I can do this again.

Only this time, she’s my daughter, my own gender and as such, my favorite female in the universe.

How I long to know if her coming-of-age stories are like mine.

How I long to sit crosslegged on her bed, helping her manipulate the minefields of budding sexuality and blossoming femininity.

Instead, I must stand back, watching, waiting, marveling, missing.

- Debra-Lynn