Emotions are such fickle creatures of the heart. They’re not to be trusted, especially when your last child moves out. You have to decide whether you’re happy or sad.

This happened in my house last month, and I was mostly happy.

And a little bit sad.

Well, no, happy. I think. Good luck, Jo!

Mrs. G. and I have been down this road before, so we knew what to expect. At least, she did.

When Firstborn left for college in Tacoma six years ago, her sister was still in high school, and the change in our family dynamic didn’t feel permanent. There would be Christmas vacations and summers for our family reunions.

But Firstborn spent less and less time at home, even when she was home. I would walk by her room and see all her belongings — the guitars, canoe paddles, Harry Potter books — and the quiet, empty space felt like a museum display or a shrine to childhood.

We communicated with long-distance calls and Facebook posts. I sent “Good morning!” texts nearly every day.

Firstborn never really came back, though, and that’s the natural order of things. I moved the futon couch into her room and turned it a man cave. All of it was made easier by the fact that her sister was still around.

The road to independence for Jo had a few more twists and U-turns before she found an apartment this summer, just a few weeks after her college graduation. We celebrated her decision to leave and helped her move furniture we got from a friend. I brought my tools over to her new place to fix things the landlord had ignored, a part of me grousing that this was not my responsibility and each time being reminded by Mrs. G., “That’s what fathers do for their daughters.”

At first Jo’s departure didn’t seem real. She had lived away during some of her college years — a year in Wisconsin, a semester in a University of Hawaii dorm and a semester abroad in Spain. I kept in touch with texts, even when she was abroad.

Her room was never a shrine, though. Her departures never felt permanent enough for that.

Now the room she grew up in is almost empty. Mrs. G. has repainted the purple-and-turquoise walls with a bright shade of yellow. The bed remains made every day.

Initially, none of this changed my morning routine. I would text Firstborn. I would text Jo.

“Good morning!”

“What are you doing today?”

“How’s life treating you?”

In the wake of all this, Mrs. G. and I have talked about helicopter parents — you know, the parents who hover over every decision a child makes. They stifle growth.

The more I thought about it, the more I decided I was guilty of that parenting crime.

“When you send a morning text, what do you expect in return?” Mrs. G. asked me. “Are you looking to know what your daughters are doing every day?”

I guess I was. And that was wrong. They probably thought every question I sent came with a value judgment. So I stopped sending the texts. At some point you have to stop hovering.

But in the morning when I reach for my cellphone, I’m always hoping to find the same thing. And some days I do.

“Good morning!”

Reach Mike Gordon at 529-4803 or email mgordon@staradvertiser.com.