In less than 24 hours, my daughter will be returning home through the Arrivals terminal at SFO, most likely a changed person. She has had an incredible two weeks living with a family who took her in as one of their own. They took her to visit all of the amazing sites of Taipei and its environs, and embraced her for who she is, making sure that every meal was safe, safe, safe for her. Photo accounts from the host mom made me feel more and more grateful each day that my daughter was in the best of hands.

And while I have anticipated a tearful, clutching reunion whereby mother and daughter can’t let go of one another, I have a feeling now that tomorrow night’s reunion will be a little cooler than I would have thought when we stayed until the last possible moment, waving our farewells through the glass dividers at SFO’s International Terminal until we couldn’t see each other anymore two weeks ago.

What started as a sojourn filled with the expected tears and fears of homesickness quickly morphed (and by that, I mean a grand total of 48 hours…) into an adventure where any documentation of her journey had to be supplied by the adults around her, namely her amazing host mom and her teacher chaperone. Both women are forever heroes in my book, simply for letting me know that my child was alive and (beyond) well, and that she was eating safely and embracing the culture of Taiwan. The very idea of sending me so much as a postcard, let alone a one-line text, is apparently passé. My child was just “too busy having a good time.”

Waves of guilt have entered my conscience as I now understand what my mom went through 20+ years ago when I left home for remote parts of the universe with so little regard for her feelings. I suppose what goes around, comes around.

I can’t say that I blame my child for her reticence to return home. Just look at these images of the adorable meals she’s been enjoying in Taipei this week. Ice in the shape of teddy bears? Rice dishes spooned into insipidly cute characters? Are you kidding me? It’s like the good people at Sanrio have thrown down the gauntlet, questioning my child’s allegiance to her country. If I was 10 years old and knew I could dine among such insipid cuteness, I too would defect.

Tomorrow’s return to the U.S. could be likened to the atmospheric re-entry of astronauts after they’ve touched the moon or lived on the space station. It may be anti-climactic, a return to normalcy, but for certain it won’t go smoothly. So long as she arrives alive and well with her medical bracelet still attached to her wrist, I know she is on the path to self-advocacy. A food-allergy mom couldn’t ask for anything more.