Dear Girls,

Now that you are both out there in the big world, I have had some time to think about the fact that I am pretty ticked off you did not prepare me for the empty nest you left behind. I knew you were leaving at some point, and that I would miss you, but you did not tell me how much and in how many ways, and how every little thing would remind me that you are gone.

Like the couch, the one we all used to sit on together each evening. You did not tell me how big it would seem when just your mother and I are sitting on it, or how I would continue to sit in my usual spot on one end (near the TV remote, of course) as though three other people would be joining me. I would invite the dog up to fill the space you two left, but then your mother would put me and the pooch out on the porch.

Pizza also reminds me of you, because there never used to be any left over when we all chowed down together. Now, when your mother and I look at slices left over, I realize that’s because your pieces have gone uneaten. How can I have an empty feeling in the pit of my stomach when I just filled it? So I am thinking of mailing you the leftovers, just to keep you included in pizza night at the Steeles’.

The telephone reminds me how much I miss having you right here, and in so many ways. When it rings I still have trouble remembering there are no young women in the house waiting to pounce on it at the first ring, as though it might be the gorgeous Prince Harry on the other end asking for date. Now, however, I am likely to be the one doing the pouncing, because these days it might be one of my princesses on the other end.

You did not tell me that every time you called I would have my paternal senses on high alert, scanning every word you uttered for hidden signs that you needed our help. You did not tell me I would listen to every inflection in your voice for signs you were unhappy, or stressed, or in some trouble you were not revealing, and that the distance between us would magnify every vocal nuance.

You did not tell me how hard it would be not to be able to match your face to your voice on the phone. Without that I cannot be certain when you reassure me. How do I know if that was the catch in your voice you have always had when you are near tears? You say you are just tired, but you always say that when I catch you near tears. In the past I could see the answer on your face, but now I have to just trust you will tell me what I need to know.

You also did not tell me that five minutes after you hung up I would have the urge to call you back and make sure everything you said was all right was really all right. Maybe I should just hop on a plane and come check on you.

I also did not realize when you solved some problem on your own that I would be proud, but also secretly disappointed you did not need my help. I know you sometimes ask for my advice because you know it makes me feel good. I also know you know that I know, but keep doing it anyway, because it does make me feel good.

I did not realize how much as the only guy in our house I would miss the chattering of happy women as background noise in our home. I still expect to come home to you and your mother sitting on the kitchen floor chatting and laughing, occasionally shrieking, always enjoying being in the moment with each other. I even miss those times I came home to mother and daughter standing together in the kitchen talking and then both looking at me in dead silence as I walked in the door. I always knew at those moments you two were working on how to tell Dad something.

The house is quieter now, too quiet. I realized the other day that one noise missing was the sound of your footsteps. I have been reminiscing about the progression of those footstep sounds on our stairs; from the sliding sound of the footed PJs as you crawled backward down the stairs, to the two-step of holding the railing and walking slowly down a step at a time, to the bang-bang-bang of the teenager pounding down the steps at full speed to beat me to the boy knocking at the kitchen door.

And another bone I have to pick with you – why did you have to end up at colleges in London, England, and Washington, D.C.? Couldn’t you have picked places for college that were not on terrorist target lists? There are some great schools in places such as Wyoming and Down East Maine, but nooooooo, you had to go to places that keep ending up in the headlines! Do I look like I can afford to lose more hair worrying? But I guess that is the nature of children, to drive their parents crazy, although I never did, I am sure. Just don’t sit on the train near anyone in a coat, or with a backpack, or with a suitcase, and call me when you get there, wherever that is. When you get home maybe we can visit the University of Maine at Presque Isle.

Most of all you did not tell me how fast the day would come when you were both in faraway places. I know everyone says that, and I knew it was coming. I just did not realize how much the empty nest is more like an empty truck; you see it in the distance and it looks a long way off, but it’s moving much faster than you think, and hits you much harder than a parent ever would have guessed.

So keep calling home, just so I can check on you, and maybe, I guess, so you can check on me. Come home at Christmas, so I can have the gift of seeing your face while hearing your voice, and pretend for a while longer that your life and home will not soon be somewhere else.

Erik Steele, D.O., a physician in Bangor, is chief medical officer of Eastern Maine Healthcare Systems and is on the staff of several hospital emergency rooms in the region.