Moms don’t always know better. But their hunch does.

I’m an independent kid who moved away from home to live on my own at 15. My mom was the one who sent me off, a year after her superstitious mind was convinced the most turbulent year in my life had passed (I wasn’t allowed to ride roller coasters in 2014) and that I was ready for adventures.

I was excited to go into the unknown alone; I’m not exactly her sweetheart, and she knows that. I don’t always remember to pick up her calls when she checks in. The last time I cried to her was when I was 13. I rarely come to her for advice; I come to her when I need a coin flip while already knowing which side I’ll pick.

I only kiss her when we say goodbye.

She’s made peace with the fact that her daughter is out there fighting monsters in the enchanted forest she sent her into. She’s reduced the frequency of calls. Now, our communication is mostly her sending me wellness articles on WeChat and me responding with a sticker as a read receipt. She started asking less about me, bragging more about her own adventures—a skydive, a silent retreat, a challenging hike—like she’s saying, “Cool that you’re out there living your life. I’m living mine too!”

She’s still my best friend, one I don’t update often but whose soul is linked to mine. Her calls always come right before I take a cliff jump, ready to either stop me from behind or be there at the foot of the mountain, shouting, “Just do it—I’m here to catch you.”

She doesn’t know my life beyond what I choose to tell her. But her hunch always does.