Twenty-One

When I was twenty-one, I was living at home.  I had moved back from a short stint of living on my own.  I was working at a travel agency from 9a-5p, would come home for dinner, and work as a waitress from 7p-2a.  It was a rough schedule.  I was good at both those jobs, and I thought I was saving up to move out with K.  She was four years old.
She is turning twenty-one next week.  When I type that sentence, it's hard to breathe.  I can't remember anything.  I saw a post about someone trying to remember when they last washed their daughter's hair since she could do it herself now.  I try to remember lasts with her.
The one I remember most was picking her up.  She was four years old.  I feel so guilty writing that because M is seven, and I'm still picking her up.  K and I were outside.  She had just given me a flower she had picked.  She was wearing jeans and a navy blue sweater.  I remember it because I have a picture of it.  That was the last time I picked her up, and it makes me sad.  
I am not a hugger.  It does not come naturally to me, so I work hard at it.  Because of this, K is not a hugger either.  I'm trying to turn her into a hugger by hugging her a lot more now.  She squirms, but I think she secretly likes it.  I'm getting used to it too.
I remember complaining to my mom a lot about these kids growing up.  She would always tell me it's just a phase, and I'd be complaining about the next phase too.  Maybe I would even want the prior phase back.  Words of wisdom.
I'm not sure why I feel like this is so permanent.  She was an adult at 18.  She still lives at home.  The only thing changing is her age.  She still calls for help on papers or decisions, so I'm not sure what my problem is.  I just know that I can't breathe, and I want to cry.