You will be 13 in six days. And I can already see you growing up. Stop it.

You’re taller. You wear snazzier clothes. You use a sort of adultish voice now, and use grown-up-female words like “absolutely” and “amazing” and—God help us all—“See? I told you so!”

Also, you’re not interested in toys like you once were. I noticed this when we were at the store yesterday. You were picking out a gift for your birthday, and we were in the toy aisle. You were yawning while I made suggestions.

Finally, you told me you were more interested in having a purse.

“A purse?” I said.

“Yes, a purse for my phone.”

So we went to the women’s section and you picked out an actual purse. Then we walked through Walmart while you wore your soon-to-be purse around your shoulder, clutching the strap like you were on your way to an important PTA meeting.

Later that night, we had your birthday supper. The celebration went well. We celebrated with cheesesteaks and French fries. But I could see some subtle differences in your table etiquette.

For starters, not once did I see you lick your fingers. Neither did you drag your sleeve through any ketchup, or spill food in your lap. You kept your napkin on your knees, pausing now and then to primly dab your face.

Consequently, for the first time in a long time, you didn’t need help finding your food on the plate. Ever since you went blind, eating became a challenge for you. But not anymore.

I still remember times when I helped feed you out in public, so you wouldn’t spill food on your nice dress. I remember hoisting you up to the men’s bathroom sink to scrub stains from your clothes while bathroom guests gave me odd glares.

But you do not need help at the supper table any longer.

If you had your vision, last night you would have seen me sitting beside you, with my napkin ready, prepared to spring into action when you spilled food. But you didn’t need me.

And well, that’s what both excites me and makes me sad at the same time. Someday soon you won’t need me.

In the near future, you’ll have everything and everyone you need in this world. You won’t need a silly godfather hanging around. Moreover, you’ll keep making new friends. You’ll keep having new experiences. And gradually, you’ll remember me less.

Oh, I’ll be there, on the sidelines, cheering you on. But you probably won’t see me. And you’ll be too busy to hear my cheers.

Even so, I’ll be there. And I’ll be so insurmountably happy, watching you live your life without any help. Independently. Wearing your little purse.

Still, a tiny piece of me will be tearful inside. Because even though you’ll be a competent adult, strong and confident, I’ll perpetually remember that tiny ponytailed girl. The precious child who, shortly after losing her vision, would clutch me tightly before bedtime and say, “I wish I could see your face, just once. I wish I could see your eyes.”

Well, I’m kind of glad you couldn’t see my eyes last night when I tucked you in. Because allergies can get so bad this time of year.