After my oldest daughter refused to hold my hand, I found myself wondering where the time had gone.

It happened recently when I picked her up from school. We were walking to our car, and I took her hand into mine. Then — for the first time — she quietly let go. She wasn’t mean or rude about it. She was actually gentle with me. Her classmates and friends were nearby, so I didn’t make a big deal. I knew exactly what had just happened, and I felt a pang in my heart in that moment of realization.

There were times when she was much younger when she broke free from my grasp to grab a doll at the store or to run to a slide at a playground.

But this was different. This was my little girl breaking free from my grasp to become an independent young lady.

In my private, emotional mommy moments, I’ve replayed the scene in my head as if it were a movie — in slow motion with a melancholy score in the background for extra dramatic effect. The part where she lets go of my hand (close-up on her hand slipping away from mine) is when my life changes forever. End scene.

I suppose it’s a sort of milestone — the kind that seems to come out of nowhere and jostles you into recognizing your baby is no longer a baby. Walking for the first time. Going to school for the first time. Losing a tooth for the first time. Not wanting to hold your hand for the first time — same as the others, just not as scrapbook-worthy.

I’ve tried a few more times since then to hold her hand, only to have the same outcome.

“Why don’t you like holding my hand anymore?” I asked her.

“I’m in fourth grade now. That’s kind of babyish,” she replied with a nervous giggle. “Sorry.”

I totally get it. She’s a tween, a few months away from her 10th birthday. She picks out her own outfits now. She takes a tad longer getting ready in front of the bathroom mirror, trying to get her hair just right. She keeps a diary. She questions our rules at home. Soon she’ll be driving, working, dating, graduating and voting. And moving away. It’s all part of life. I get it.

But I want all of my daughters — 9, 7 and 4 years old — to know that for as long as I live, I’ll always want to hold their hands to continue to protect them, guide them or comfort them. In my eyes they’ll never be too old for that. I like to think they’ll do the same for me in my golden years. And when grandchildren come along, I’ll want to hold their hands for as long as possible, too.

The other day my older girls and I went to pick up my youngest at preschool. My oldest was walking beside me as we were leaving campus.

Again I tried and again she let go.

Then I reached out to my two younger ones, and they happily held my hands. I smiled and gave them an extra squeeze as I had another moment of realization: We still have plenty of time.

“She Speaks” is a weekly column by women writers of the Honolulu Star-Advertiser. Reach Zenaida Serrano at zserrano@staradvertiser.com.